I'm The Damn Fool That Shot Him
by GrabTheSpotlight
Summary: Set in the 1920s John Laurens is a professional assassin, he has been for as long as he can remember. Alexander Hamilton is an apprentice at Scotland Yard. The two quickly become obsessed with each other but then what happens when Alexander becomes John's next mission.
1. Chapter 1

Under the dim glow of the lamplight in the dark, deserted street, John Laurens inspected the postcard he had been sent.

 _Achilles,_

John rolled his eyes. One time. He hurt his ankle one time. No matter, the target paid for it. He hadn't failed a mission yet.

 _Your father and I are well in Greece,_

 _Venturing out into the world has and will do us good, I believe,_

 _One day I hope to bring you along with us on these trips, you would enjoy it,_

 _No doubt in my mind,_

 _No doubt, whatsoever,_

 _Even your father, the miserable old fool, appears to be enjoying himself!_

 _After a stroll along the beach, we are tired and will shortly retire to bed,_

 _Nightfall is close now and the sky is growing darker,_

 _Dark as the pupils of my favourite son's eyes,_

 _Right on the horizon the sun is beginning to set and it is beautiful,_

 _Everything feels right with the world, we are at peace!_

 _For the first time in years, your father and I have not bickered like children,_

 _Rest has come to him as I write this, his eyes have begun to close as sleep consumes him,_

 _Anniversary well celebrated, I say!_

 _Now, how are you my dear?_

 _Cousin Hercule from France has been sending letters, asking about you,_

 _Evidently you aren't just my favourite!_

 _Please take care, my son,_

 _Assist the workers at the store for me,_

 _Really, they are helpless without you,_

 _It is time for me to bid you Adieu,_

 _Sleep well, my child,_

 _Love, your mother._

Good Lord, John thought. They really were terrible at these fake postcards. He thought that after all this time they - whoever _they_ was - would have found a more efficient way to give him his missions. He didn't even have parents. _They were dead!_ John held the yellowing card in the light and covered up most of the words with his right hand; his right hand was scarred and battleworn, but sharp and precise as a striking snake. Now on the page, a name and destination. _Yvonne Andre, France, Paris._ Well, that was all great, but who was _Yvonne Andre, who was in France, Paris_?

Out of the shadows, a familiar man in a suit and hat approached John. In his hand he carried a black briefcase which he gave to John as he guided him off of the street into a dark alleyway.

"You're getting careless, Achilles. Out in the open," the man chided.

John laughed, "and have I been caught? I don't believe I have, unless, of course, you are now an undercover spy… Charles."

In a moment so swift it would have been disastrous if not for John's lightning quick reflexes, the man pulled a small blade from his inside pocket and made to hold it against John's neck. John gripped his wrist and removed the weapon from the man's hand before he had the chance to strike. He twisted the man's arm behind his back and pushed him against the wall, running the blade against the man's cheek and he tutted.

"Oh, well that was hardly a smart thing to do, hmm? Honestly Charles… _you're_ the one getting careless, not me."

Charles, tensed as the cold blade ran across his warm skin and he felt the blood dripping down his face, "how do you know my name?"

John considered Charles, a man he had known for a long time, he had always hated him. He could kill him now, he thought. _It was too easy. Where was the excitement?_ Not tonight, but he would eventually.

He pressed his body against the man in the dark suit so that his mouth was next to his ear, and he whispered, "I know more than you think."

Charles shivered and John felt satisfaction rise in him. He lifted up his tanned wrist to check the time. He wiped a spec of blood from the watch that he must have got from his last mission. People could be so _messy._

He sighed and pressed the blade lightly into Charles' back. He leaned in to whisper in his ear again, "now, sweetie, what news have you about Yvonne Andre?"

"Why don't you open the case, dumbass?" he spat.

He tutted again and moved the blade to his throat, breathing on his neck. He watched the hairs prickle and he kissed him under his jaw. Charles squirmed under his touch.

"Have some decency, man!" he yelled.

"Shh, shh, shh. Now, now, we don't want anybody interrupting this mission, do we?"

The man was silent. John applied more pressure to the blade and Charles gasped, "you're right… No, we don't."

John smirked against his neck, "good. Really good. Now, shall we try again? What news have you about Yvonne Andre?"

"She's the wife of one of the bosses' rivals… they want her dead, they want it to look like a suicide," he whimpered.

John groaned, "do the _bosses_ have a name?"

"Does it matter?" he winced when the blade made a small cut on his neck.

"Oh, Charles, Charles, Charles. Always so naive… if I didn't hate you I'd find it cute. You see, there's power in a name."

"Don't be ridiculous, Achilles."

John turned him to look him in the eye and pushed him harder into the rough, brick wall.

"Oh, it's true, Charlie," he said as he wiped the blood from the other man's cheek, "for example, I could have you like putty in my hands after saying nine words. Nine words from me and you are mine, sweetheart. Nine words and the first is a name."

His piercing blue eyes glared at John as he spoke, "and what would that be? No single person has that power."

"Is that so?" he leaned in for the final time that night and kissed his ear, "Lily says she wants her daddy to save her."

John grinned a devilish smile as he watched the colour drain from his enemy's face upon hearing those words. He took off the latter's hat and placed it upon his own head as Charles stood and watched, at a loss for words. John reached into the blazer pocket of the helpless man and pulled out a 2mm Kolibri.

"Good evening, sweetheart. Sleep well."

He walked away from the scene, with the blade in his pocket, the briefcase in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He stopped at the end of the alleyway.

"Oh, one more thing…"

He swivelled around on the spot and aimed at the still frozen man's legs and fired the pistol. He writhed in pain and fell to the floor.

"You bastard!" he screamed.

"Oops… slip of the hand. You'll be fine, walk it off."

And with that, he sauntered away to his desolate abode in the city. _That felt good._ He sat at his desk and opened the briefcase. Inside was a file filled with information on Yvonne Andre including her address, estimated schedule and possible weak points. _Ooh, she was asthmatic._ John loved those ones, they were so easy. He smiled to himself and went to his small kitchen. He opened the cabinet full of chemicals and poisons.

"Which today, then?" he mumbled to himself, "ah, perfect."

He struck a match and lit the stove with it, pouring an assortment of chemicals into a pot. He pulled a gas mask over his mouth and set to work. After a few hours, he poured the concoction into an old perfume bottle he had found amongst the piles of crap his landlady had hoarded.

"Mrs. Norbury!" he called for his landlady but to no response, "good God woman! Mrs. Norbury!"

He heard the slow footsteps, three to be exact, on the stairs up to his apartment. Two were Mrs. Norbury's light steps, the other tapping was her walking stick against the wood.

"Yes, dear?"

John's voice turned sweet, "ah, my favourite landlady."

"I am your only landlady, dear. What do you want?"

He shut the door on the kitchen, hiding the instruments left grotesque on the stained worktops. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gestured for her to sit in his armchair. Her short, greying hair smelt of roses. Clamped tightly in his hand behind his back was the perfume bottle.

"I got you a present, for being the best landlady ever," he smiled.

She laughed, "oh, you shouldn't have. Thank you!"

"You have to close your eyes, it's a surprise."

She did as instructed, her arms folded on her long navy skirt. She was an old lady. She had no family. John doubted she'd be missed. Besides, she was a terrible landlady.

"Three… two… night night," he counted and sprayed the perfume in her face.

He watched her as she coughed and choked, sending herself into a fit. She fell to the ground and dug her fingernails into the floorboards. John wore a bored expression and as she clawed at the floor he walked to the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette.

"Oh, do shut up, Mrs. Norbury. I've got to start packing. I'm going to Paris."

He pulled out a suitcase from under his bed and pulled a few outfits out of his closet. He took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. A couple of suits. He folded them and put them on the bed next to the open case. He patted himself down and pulled out the pistol, inspecting it. _Beautiful,_ he thought. _Could be useful._ Next was the blade. Then a selection of his own weapons. And finally, the perfume bottle. He placed all of these items in the case and zipped that compartment, covering it with harmless clothes and essentials. _No questions asked at security._ John put out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table.

He turned to leave, then he turned back reluctantly. _That damn picture._ He took the black and white photograph of a woman with dark, curly hair and freckles as far as the eye could see. She was beautiful, young and seemingly worry free. John stared at the woman and coughed, not allowing himself to get too sentimental. It was a dangerous characteristic to have in his profession. Nevertheless, he packed the image, along with his cigarettes, pre-rolled, and left the apartment. On his way out he shouted, "goodbye, Mrs. Norbury. Oh no, sorry, sorry, my bad. You're dead. Yup, okay. Bye, Mrs. Norbury's lifeless body. Yes, that's better."

His long, greasy hair fell in his face as he nursed the glass of whisky. Just one more letter to pen and then he could go to bed. _One more._ He downed the rest of the whisky and cracked his knuckles. Alexander's office was small and quiet. He was, after all, merely the apprentice of the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. This particular case had caught his attention. The notorious assassin who's identity remained unknown. He had been at large for years, since The Great War, possibly during. It had intrigued Alexander so much that he, workaholic Alexander Hamilton, had neglected his letters to delve deeper into his case. This assassin was like no other Alex had ever heard of before.

There was sharp knocking on the door and Alexander stood as D.I. Washington entered his office, looking distressed.

"I require your assistance once more, Hamilton. Tell me, what do you know of the Greek Assassin?"

Hamilton smiled, "I have the file here, sir."

John slammed the newspaper on the table at the café, "'The Greek Assassin Strikes Again'? I am in no way greek!"

Lafayette covered John's mouth, "shh, shut up," to which John bit him and kicked him in the shin, "ow, you son of a bitch."

"Why do they think I'm greek? I'm not greek."

"We get it, mon ami. You are not greek. But, it would probably help your case if you stopped leaving clues for them. Greek mythology books? Always on the page of Achilles' tale? Imbécile."

Lafayette led John to his apartment in the centre of Paris and John slumped in the chair as soon as they entered, "and they didn't even get the story right, ' _28 October 1926_ …. _the notorious Greek Assassin scared Mrs. Andre so much that she passed out and it was then that he stabbed her nineteen times in the abdomen',_ um, no. That isn't what happened at all. I induced an asthma attack and _then_ I stabbed her nineteen times. Idiotic cops."

"Achilles, give me the report. Was this a successful mission?"

John rolled his eyes, here came the disappointment speech, "yes. The target was killed successful."

"Let me stop you right there. What was your mission?"

John glared at Laf, "kill the target."

"And?"

"Be done with it?"

"Non, it was supposed to look like a suicide."

"She's dead. What does it matter?" John shrugged drinking his coffee after sniffing it and giving some to the dog first.

"It was the same in London. London was meant to look like suicide."

John smiled innocently, "it didn't?"

Lafayette looked like he was on the verge of screaming, "so she slit her own throat?"

Laurens shrugged and drank again, "it happens."

His face was red now, "and killed four other people?"

John pretended to wince, "slip of the hand?"

The tall frenchman stood over John and glared, a hand on his shoulder, "why are you being naughty?"

"I'm bored. It's always, 'make it look like suicide' 'don't over do it' 'keep it simple'. Look, when 'the bosses' or whoever the fuck they are decided to raise me as a psychopath assassin, they should have thought about the fact that psychopaths get bored!"

Lafayette laughed coldly, "do you jest? You're bored? That's why you're acting up and destroying this entire organisation from the inside out?"

John was stood up now, "has it ever possibly crossed your miniscule mind that perhaps I never wanted to be a part of whatever organisation this is to begin with!"

"We all chose this path."

John lost it there. That wasn't true, not at all. He had been forced into this. He pulled out the knife from his pocket and threw it, narrowly missing Lafayette. A warning shot. If he had meant to hit him, he would have, "ha, do _you_ jest now? You think that as a babe I begged the bosses to train me and raise me to kill and not care? I killed my landlady last week!"

"You… wait, what? You killed Mrs. Norbury?"

"I was testing the perfume that I put a lot of effort into and it was completely disregarded. I mean, talk about rude."

"I want you to be reassessed, perhaps they'll knock some sanity into you."

He scoffed, " _sanity._ Do not be so ignorant. You believe one could have my profession and maintain one's sanity?"

John fell back onto the loveseat in Lafayette's huge apartment. He scanned the room and noticed the toys and teddies. Children? Could he use that as leverage?

He stood up again and began to pace, taking in his surroundings. The window had a balcony, he walked over to it.

"Please could you make me another coffee? And if you're going to poison me, put more in it, that dose wasn't enough for a human. A dog, however…"

The bulldog lay on the rug in front of the hearth, a pool of sick in front of it. Lafayette shrugged, "it was worth a try."

 _Pathetic attempt,_ if you're going to do it, do it properly. John open the window and climbed onto the balcony. _Third floor. Balcony directly below. Possible to scale. Or escape? Or both… there's an idea._

Admittedly, Lafayette did have a beautiful view of the city from his apartment. You could see both La Seine and the Eiffel Tower. John loved Paris, always had. French had been his favourite language they had taught him at the institute. _The institute._ He quickly shook those thoughts from his mind.

"Achilles, this is your last chance. Fuck this up and you won't be working alone in a long time."

"What is it? Where are they shipping me off to now?"

"To fix a little problem you caused in Paris. A witness who has sought sanctuary in Italy, Florence."

He grinned, "molto bene."

Washington sat in the chair opposite Hamilton's as they went over Yvonne Andre's case again and again, trying to find any common links between that and other assassinations.

"Perhaps they are not assassinations at all, Hamilton, merely a serial killer who is incredibly skilled."

Alexander shook his head, "all due respect, sir, I don't think so. Look at this one, for example, hair pin in the eye and injected with poison. And where? Italy, Florence. The one before? France, Paris. And before that? England, London. It is evident to me, sir, that the culprit is travelling Europe killing very specific people. London, a key witness for an important case. Paris, the wife of a very powerful businessman. Italy, the only known witness to the murder of Mrs. Andre. These are all clearly linked with bigger conspiracies Scotland Yard has been sitting on for decades. And of course, there is the linking feature, the greek mythology books."

Washington nodded, listening intently as Alexander theorised, "yes, that is how he acquired the name 'Greek Assassin'."

Alexander rubbed his face, "something about that seems odd. Hmm…"

He inspected the black and white images of the crime scenes, studying each of the books left neatly under the victims hand. All the same page. _Achilles… Achilles... Achilles…_

The latest assassination, Italy, Florence, the page was covered in markings, all pointing to the word Achilles, the word Greek had been crossed out numerous times.

"Achilles…"

Washington stared blankly, "the one with the weak heel?"

Alexander came to, "what? I- uh, yes- YES! Sorry, I think our assassin is trying to tell us something."

Washington smiled, "you are wasted behind a desk."

Alexander basked in the subtle praise, appreciating it more than the Detective Inspector could ever imagine.

"Do we know of any assassins who have injured their heal?" he asked.

Washington hesitated, "it's both incredibly likely and incredibly unlikely."

"I'll check."

John woke up because of a bright light shining in his eyes. The curtains had been opened very suddenly. He rolled over to find two people in bed with him. A man and a woman. The man had blond, straight hair whereas the girl's was long and auburn. They woke up, too. They were all naked. _Whoops._

"Won't you introduce me to your friends?" Lafayette said, anger seeping through his calm demeanor.

John kissed the man deeply and then the woman, considerably less passionately. He told them both to leave. They stood up together and walked away. He pulled out the pistol he had taken from Charles and shot them both in the back of the heads. _It was of use after all._

"Was there any need for that?" Lafayette sighed, folding his arms where he sat on the arm of a beige armchair, "all over my new carpet."

John pondered the question for a moment and then smiled, "nuh-uh. They weren't very good. Well, he was, but it wouldn't be very fair to let him go and kill the girl, would it?"

"Three days ago, one of Moscow's most controversial politician was found professionally murdered in a pretty street in Vienna… very good," John smiled as Lafayette told him this. He was buttoning up his shirt as he continued, "the murder took place in a blind spot… also good," John was really smiling now, but, "the politician's girlfriend was reportedly with him while he died… fine," uh-oh, John was in trouble now, how had he fucked up? "And was not harmed… not so good. She is currently in London, where she will be interviewed as a principal witness to the murder… bad," John looked away now as Laf's eyes bore into him, "which will take place in two days… very bad."

John stared at him now, not making any facial expression or indication as to how he had registered the information given to him.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

John hesitated, "have you had a haircut?"

With a sigh, Laf confirmed, "yes."

John nodded and frowned, "meh. I would have done better. Off to London, then, yes?"

"Oh no, you'll not be working on your own this time."

John chuckled, "sorry, I must have misheard. I thought you just said I wouldn't be working on my own?"

Lafayette didn't smile, he frowned, angry. Hot and livid, "I warned you."

John shot the wall a couple of times and stormed out. He was _not_ going to work with people.


	2. Chapter 2

John waited at the docks in England, Dover, awaiting the two people he would be working with. He hated everything about this, every last detail. John Laurens did _not_ require assistance. His sat on his suitcase and watched the boats and ferries. He picked at the leather handle of the case, bored. It was night and only a few people had walked past. Mainly men tending to the ships, others drunks and pro skirts, couple of dope peddlers. John found it all very boring. _Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored._

A tall man wearing a herringbone pattern fitted suit with matching trousers and vest walked towards him. He had a striped shirt with a collar and a black necktie. Strands of wavy, mousy brown hair obscured his eyes as he approached John in the dim light. Closely behind him, a woman dripping in jewels and wearing a gold, low-waisted flapper dress under a long coat. Her eyes were dark brown, even in the poor lighting. John thought her features were certainly attractive; had she been his type he thought he would be all over her. But she was not his type.

John stood up and smirked, "evening, Sir. Miss."

The man held his hand out to shake and John laughed. He pulled the man into an embrace - he loved how this simple gesture made men squirm - and chuckled when he felt a sharp pressure to his abdomen, "oh, are you holding a knife or are you just happy to see me? It's rude to stab people before you've greeted them, you know."

"Achilles, I presume?" the woman asked, a thick Russian accent evident in her voice.

"In the flesh, darlin', your friend doesn't say much does he? He's got a pretty face, shame if something happened to it."

She smiled and held out her hand to John who shook his head when he saw the shine of a blade under the coat, "got a little something in your sleeve there, sweetheart?"

"Ah, you are clever aren't you, Achilles. Shall we?"

"After you."

He picked up the suitcase and they walked to a parked automobile in a deserted street.

"In the back, freckles," the man said, also with a Russian accent.

John let out a low whistle, "ah! It speaks. But, that's a risky move, my good man."

"What?"

John shrugged, "well, I don't know, it just seems like you've put a lot of trust into one of the most dangerous assassins you've ever met. Lot of weapons in the back, it would be disastrous if one were to somehow fall into the wrong hands. It seems to me, good sir, that you're making a lot of impetuous decisions. Perhaps you should just let this lovely young lady make the decisions from now on, да?"

The man growled and cursed in Russian under his breath. The lady stepped forward and gripped John's wrist, he let her, "get in the front, I'll drive."

The man reluctantly got in the back of the black automobile and slammed the door. John smiled to himself and the lady then got in the front. A few moments later and the man in the back had a razor sharp dagger to his throat. Laurens rolled his eyes again, wishing people would learn.

"Honestly, am I the only one who can do my job right? Good God, немного ниже, сделай это правильно, Дмитрий."

The man, Dmitriy, lowered the blade slightly as instructed, "how do you know my name?"

"Does it matter? The important thing to point out is that you and Натали here… sorry, you wouldn't mind if I used the English translations of your names, would you? I never like Russian. So, Dmitriy… you and Natalie keep trying to threaten me when we all know you have orders not to kill me, it's just a tedious nuance now. Honestly, keep the dagger there if it makes you feel more comfortable. But you don't have any power over me, I'm in charge here," John said.

Natalie glared at him and took the dagger from Dmitriy and put it in the inside pocket of her long coat. She started the engine and drove them in the direction of London.

"So… are we going to a party? You're both dressed nicely," John asked.

"Dmitriy, the outfit?" Natalie hissed to the man who was sulking in the back of the vehicle, fiddling with a pistol.

He huffed and bent down in his seat to grab a bag from the floor. He passed it rather forcefully to John who only grinned, flashing his teeth. The later searched through the bag and pulled a face of disgust.

"A waiter? Why do you get the fancy dress?" he pouted.

"Because I am going to be a showgirl tonight. We are going incognito," she replied, sounding slightly irritated.

"Not to be that person, but, don't we have more pressing matters to deal with than going to a speakeasy?" John replied.

Dmitriy laughed, "they don't have speakeasies here, дурак. No prohibition. No speakeasy. It's just a bar."

John sucked in air through his teeth, irritated, "still a speakeasy, just legal. It's a legal speakeasy."

"No."

"Yeah."

"No!"

"Mhm, yeah."

Natalie stopped the automobile abruptly sending the two men forward, "shut it! Now, Dmitriy, explain the plan. And you two be nice or I swear I will rip you both to shreds!"

"Feisty one, aren't ya?" John side-smirked, "such a shame."

"What is?"

His grin grew and he turned around in his seat to smile at Dmitriy, "the plan, sweetheart?"

"The girlfriend is going to be at the bar tonight. She will not be alone. She is under police protection, so it is a little bit more complicated."

"Get on with it. So what is the plan?"

"You and I shall distract the officers and Natalie will be in the restroom. Finished."

 _Yeah… no, that's not happening,_ John thought. He nodded anyway.

"Okay. Boring, but okay."

They drove for a few more hours, stopping for John to change, and parked in an alleyway by the side of a bar, steps going down to the entrance.

"Speakeasy."

"I have warned you, Achilles," Natalie threatened, "British accent?"

"I hate the British accent," John groaned. He threw his arms in the air and changed his accent sarcastically yet accurately, "good evening, governor! Dreary day, don't you think? Care for some tea?"

"Just do it," Dmitriy growled.

John entered first, shortly followed by Natalie and finally by Dmitriy a few minutes later. Rising no suspicion, John strode through the bar in his long coat and hung it in the back room which he had found to be unlocked. He straightened his tie in a small, cracked mirror on the wall and tucked a chain - one he always wore around his neck - under his shirt. _Hidden._

He sauntered back into the bar and picked up a tray of champagnes. Nobody even batted an eyelid. He winked as he passed Dmitriy, "care for champagne, sir?"

"Non. No, thank you, mes ami," he replied, glaring.

 _What? How is that fair? Why does_ he _get to have a French accent._

He walked away, scowling - French was _his_ favourite, he hated British. All of the champagne filled glasses had been given out and John slipped behind the bar, seemingly unnoticed. He began to clean glasses with a white rag as showgirls, including Natalie, took stage. They were, though to John it made little difference, beautiful. Every man in the dimly lit room had their eyes on them. All but one, Laurens noticed. His eyes were immediately drawn to this man who paid no attention to the dancing women. Natalie stepped forward and began to sing a familiar song into a microphone. John tapped his foot along to the tune and moved down the bar to the distracted man. He had his head bent over a notepad and was furiously scratching down multiple German phrases the woman beside him was slurring.

"Why? Why does it have to be German? I don't speak German…" he mumbled.

John looked closer at the woman beside the man. She had messy, unbrushed hair and smudged make up. She slurred her words and waved her arms. It was her. The witness. _Bingo._

"Can I get you anything, miss?" John smiled politely.

She looked up and waved her arms some more, mumbling in German, "Engländer sind so dumm. Sie sind ihrer Sprache ähnlich. Blöd. Ich weiß nicht was du sagst, dumm!"

John had to fight back a laugh.

The gentleman beside her looked up at John and rolled his eyes. John stared. _Fuck. Talk about attractive. What a pretty face._ His dark navy collar was turned up and his shirt was unbuttoned, his necktie loose. Dark shadows made him look tired. John knew he wanted him. Badly. He glanced at the paper he was writing on, translating it in his head. _Shit._ A description of the assassination, and what John looked like at the time. He had disguised himself for that incident, he wasn't in the mood to kill multiple people that day who might have discovered his identity. Still, it could have been worse. He smiled at the gentleman who was now looking at John.

He sighed, "I wouldn't even bother with her, friend. Not a word of English in her vocabulary."

"Well, fortunately, I happen to speak German, sweetheart," John winked as the man's face flushed a shade of pink against his tan skin upon hearing the nickname John so often used.

"You- you do?" his eyes lit up.

"Oh, yes, I spent a short time in Berlin with my sister," he lied, "she taught me."

He turned to the witness again, "willst du etwas trinken, liebes?"

"Offensichtlich!" she rolled her eyes.

John grinned, he felt Dmitriy glaring at him from the other side of the a bar and glanced at Natalie's eyes narrowing on stage. He bent down and pulled out a liquor. He was alone behind the bar now, the other bartenders were delivering drinks. Crouched on the floor, he pulled out the chain from around his neck and poured a white powder from the tube attached to the chain into a small glass - arsenic. He topped up the glass with the liquor and stood up, smiling reassuringly at her when he passed her the deadly drink. She chugged it down, no questions asked.

John and the officer chatted for an hour or two, exchanging stories. John shamelessly flirted with the stranger who neither displayed enjoyment nor disgust as most did. He found himself studying the man's features, the way he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, the way he tapped his fingernails against his glass when John used nicknames one ought not to use in public to those of the same gender.

John checked his watch and saw how much time had passed - not long now. He turned to the man, "my mother used to tell me stories when I was younger. They never really interested me. Not those ones. No. I tended to lean more towards the myths and the legends. What do you think, sweetie?"

The man furrowed his eyebrows, "any literature catches my attention. But, yes, the myths and the legends are stories I favour… what are you telling me this for, my good man?"

John shrugged and pulled out a piece of folded paper from a pocket, "you'll understand in a moment or two, I'm sure. You seem smart."

He walked around the side of the bar and held the man's shoulder, placing the folded paper on top of his notepad, "don't peak yet. Tell me, what is your name, handsome?"

The man shuddered - John loved that. Loved how he made people feel. He brushed the man's hair behind his ear and leaned in, kissing the man's temple, "I won't bite, what's your name?"

The man focused his gaze on his fingers drumming against his half finished glass, "you should be careful what you say and how you act around these people, you know."

"But not you, no, not around you."

"I could arrest you, you could face imprisonment."

John clapped the man on the back, "certainly, you could. But, you have a lot of buddies around here, and you haven't called for any of them. Are you going to arrest me? I don't mind being handcuffed."

"Are you quite mad?" the man's eyes were wide.

"Oh no, sweetheart," John checked his watch again - a few more moments. He leaned in to whisper in his ear again, "are you going to tell me your name?"

"No."

Dmitriy was slowly and subtly making his way towards him. John noticed and looked over at the woman, she was swaying in her seat. _Time to go._

He held up his finger to the man and addressed the poisoned witness, "für eine Frau unter Polizeischutz hätte ich gedacht, dass Sie mit dem, was die Menschen Ihnen geben, vorsichtiger sein würde. Vor allem Getränke."

She paled at his words and fell into a coughing fit, "er ist der Mörder, er hat meinen Geliebten ermordet! Er hat mich vergiftet!"

"Are you quite alright, miss?" the man asked the woman under his protection.

She wheezed, "attentäter! Attentäter! Mörder!"

John squeezed the man's shoulder and began to walk away, "my shift is over. Perhaps miss has had a tad too much to drink. I suggest you take her home now."

He blocked John, "who are you?"

"I already told you," John moved his arm and continued walking, "night, sweetie. I'm sure we will meet again, I'll make sure of it. Night night, miss."

He walked out of the bar and turned the corner, a skip in his step. He heard the scream of a woman from the bar even this far away and knew he had completed the job. She was dead. _The witness was no longer a witness. A live one, anyway._ He heard the shout of a Russian man, Dmitriy, and the sound of his boots on the pavement, getting closer. He carried on walking and made a detour down an alley, knowing he would follow.

 _He did._

"Hey, are you deaf?" he shouted at John, whose back was turned to Dmitriy.

"Not at all," he dropped the accent.

"What was that? You didn't stick to the plan!" he growled.

"Well spotted."

He turned around to look at the red-faced man. He considered him and scanned his body, looking for weak points and possible places he could be hiding weapons. The last thought made him chuckle. The man leaned on one leg. _A weak leg?_ John felt the knife in his sleeve. He breathed in deeply. _He has it coming to him, just do it._ He let the breath out and sighed.

"Sorry," he said.

"'Sorry'? _The_ Great Achilles, apologising to _me_?" he laughed, "why didn't you stick to the plan, then?"

John scowled, "what? No, that's not why I'm apologising. I did a great job, your plan was stupid. No, no, no. I'm apologising because you're not my type."

"What? Don't disgust me. How dare you suggest I favour your... kind... in bed."

"I suggested no such thing. I only meant that had you been my type I might not have done this."

Before Dmitriy could respond, John had kicked the man's weak leg and buried the knife into his chest, drawing it out and slitting his throat. _Messy. Messy. Messy…_

John walked to the car and started the engine, Natalie ran in her heels to the car.

"What are you doing? Why did you kill him?" she demanded, getting in the passenger seat.

"Well, miss, he said some not very nice things about you. And I couldn't stand for that, could I?"

She frowned, "he was my husband, he wouldn't."

"He wasn't a very good one, was he?" John smiled, faking sympathy, "look, I'm sorry. But I couldn't let him talk about you like that. Why don't you put his body in the back and we can dispose of him, I'll buy you a drink."

She stared at him, tears forming in her eyes. She made no move to attack John, she looked down at her cold hands.

"Look, sweetie, it's for the best. Give me a smile, no tears. That's better. Go on, get him in the back."

Her bottom lip trembled and she got out of the car. When she was behind the automobile, John shifted the gear and reversed very quickly, knocking her over, doing it three times, just to make sure. He turned off the engine and grimaced to himself, "oops? Slip of the hand?"

Alexander checked the witness' pulse and cursed when he found none. She was dead. A crowd formed around him and the woman, his fellow officers rushing over and joining Alex in his anger. The last lead. He looked at the folded piece of paper on his notepad. That man had distracted him from his case. That handsome, flirtatious, mysterious man. That freckled, long-haired, tanned man. Damn him. He picked up the paper and opened it. It was a page from a book, an old book, a familiar book. A book of Greek mythology. And the page… Achilles.

"Shit…"

Alexander stood up abruptly and rushed out of the bar. He stood on the street, not a single person in sight.

"Damn!"

He walked to the station and gave his report to Washington, verbose, as usual. He explained how he believed he had met the assassin that night.

"You _met_ him?" Washington said, "and you didn't stop him?"

"Sir, I didn't know it was him at the time."

"You were given a task: interview the witness and maintain her safety. You have failed both. I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed in you, Hamilton."

"But sir!" Hamilton was filled with anger, he'd done his best, he didn't know, "that is unfair, I imagine you would have failed as badly as I have."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard! How was I to know? I interviewed the witness but I don't speak German."

"You are getting careless. I'm taking you off this case, it is too important."

"Sir!"

Washington slammed a fist down on the desk, "enough! Alexander, I think it is best you go home."

"But Sir…"

"Home. I'm sure your wife is expecting you."

Alexander stormed out of the office and walked home, kicking fallen leaves on his way. He took off his tie and opened the door to his home.

"I'm home, love!" he shouted to his wife.

"Alexander? You're home early…" Eliza said, getting up from her chair and holding her back, "are you well?"

Hamilton nodded and kissed his wife putting a hand to her bump, "I am. How is our son?"

"A little aggravated I think, keeps kicking. I wonder where he gets is from?" she smiled, her nose wrinkling.

Eliza was wonderful woman. In fact, Alex couldn't have wished to meet a more pleasant and affable young woman. Her long brown hair fell down her back as water flows down the mountain, gracefully and with great beauty. She placed her delicate hand on top of Alexander's where it rest on her stomach. She smiled sweetly, "Alexander, dear, why are you home so early? I wasn't expecting you for hours, at least."

"Are you disappointed?" he asked, wanting to hide himself away in his office and forget about the whole ordeal with Washington. He didn't want to talk about it, not at all.

"Of course not, I only meant that I am surprised. I missed you, of course."

He was angry after the disagreement with Washington, and with the loss of the only witness; for he was naturally choleric, but his anger never lasted long. Another look at his beloved wife made his bad mood dissipate into that of one filled with comfort and warmth. She had that effect on people.

They walked up the stairs together and got ready for bed. Eliza rested her head on Alexander's bare chest as he read through his writings on the case. Washington may have taken him off of it, but that didn't mean he couldn't continue to make his own investigations. Well, it did, but it had never stopped him before.

"Alexander, go to sleep, dear. I won't have you up all night, it will do you no good," Eliza mumbled, her eyes shut.

"Shh, just a moment longer. Night, sweetie," Alex replied.

 _Sweetie. That's what he had called him. The assassin. The assassin with the Achilles story. Achilles. Maybe that's what they called him. Him. The man with the gorgeous eyes and beautifully tanned skin. The man who flirted shamelessly, knowing he was a police officer. Achilles._

Guilt rushed through Alexander. He was in bed with his pregnant wife and thinking so sinfully of a man, an assassin, no less. He turned off the lamps and kissed Eliza on the forehead.

"Good night, love."


	3. Chapter 3

His foot slipped slightly on a moss covered brick as John scaled the wall to Laf's apartment. He grabbed the rail of his balcony and hoisted himself up, huffing and brushing himself down as he used a pin to unlock the doors. He made himself a whisky and walked to the sofa. Too quick for him to be able to react, Laf appeared out of a room and pushed John against a wall, his hand clenched around his throat, a knife in his other hand.

"Bonsoir," John choked.

"What the _Hell_ were you thinking?" Laf screamed at him.

"Nice to see you, too."

Lafayette dropped the knife and punched John across the face twice. Blood poured from John's nose.

"Finally, someone who can do their job right," John spat blood onto the floor and smirked at the rather angry looking Frenchman, "now, would you like to calmly tell me your problem?"

Laf made a funny sort of groaning noise and counted to ten under his breath, "you…. _killed_ …. two of my best people."

"They were bad at their job. It really says a lot about who you employ if they were amongst the best. I mean, clearly I'm the best. You did _something_ right."

Laf grunted and turned around, taking the bottle of whisky John had left out and drank some of it, "Achilles, do you realise how badly you fucked up?"

"What are you talking about? The witness is dead. The bad assassins are dead. What's the problem?" John shrugged.

Laf cursed under his breath, "you were seen. You interacted… with a cop! Not only did you interact with a cop… but one we've been watching. One cop who just happens to be specialising on recent assassinations. All linking to, _surprise,_ you! People are suspicious of you. And now, Achilles, they know what you look like, they now know where you've been! They know… how you work. And you don't even care. If you are caught, you will hang."

John was silent for a moment, "y'know… you're lack of faith in me hurts. You think I'd just _get caught._ What was the cop's name?"

Laf glared, "a Mr. Alexander Hamilton. Why do you want to know?"

"Alexander," he repeated, stressing every syllable. "And if I did hang, would you be sad?"

Laf put the bottle down and fell onto the loveseat. John kicked his foot onto the wall behind him and leaned on it.

Lafayette stared at John, "... what?"

"Do you think I'll get caught and hang?"

"... no, I don't. But-"

John pressed on, sticking his bottom lip out, "would you be sad if I did?"

Laf frowned, "of course."

"Awh, that's adorable. You see? I can't make you sad. So I won't hang. I won't get caught. You and the 'organisation' aren't gonna be found out. No problem. Happy, happy, happy. Are we understood? Yes? Good. Next mission?"

Laf clenched his fist, tensing the muscles there. He stood up slowly and went into his bedroom, returning with a briefcase. He held it out to John who took it and sat, cross-legged on the blood stained floor. He glanced over the files and notes in the case and shook his head, pushing the case away.

"Absolutely not. No," John stood up and stepped backwards, continuing to shake his head.

"What do you mean, 'no'? You'll kill people unnecessarily, but not the person you're paid to? Don't be so idiotic."

"I mean it. I'm not killing her. I have rules. Morals," he folded his arms and lifted his chin up.

"Achilles, I have known you for a long time. You don't have morals."

"If you've known me so long. Tell me, Lafayette. What is my name?"

Laf didn't answer and John scoffed, "exactly. You don't know anything about me. But let me tell you this and I'll say it only once, so please make sure you're inferior mind is paying attention. I have morals, and I will not kill that woman if my life depended on it, which by this point I'm sure is true."

"Why not? What on Earth, Heaven and Hell is making you refuse to kill this woman in particular?"

John's jaw dropped open, "you're- you're joking, right?"

Laf shrugged and shook his head, "I don't see your problem."

John laughed, "and I'm meant to be the emotionless one. She is with child. I refuse to kill anyone who is with child. When she has the baby, I will kill her, fine, no problem. But not now. So you can tell whoever is in charge that they'll have to wait until the woman is no longer in her condition."

"You're being ridiculous."

John kicked the case across the apartment, crashing it against the wall, "I'm not being ridiculous. I'm being fair."

"Since when are you _fair."_

John punched through the wall, breaking the skin on his knuckles, "since people decided to kill the innocents, who hadn't left the womb before they even got a chance to see this pile of crap we call life! All because their mother was a bad person. Because _that_ is not fair! Even by my standards."

Laf threw his head back and laughed. John slammed a package into his chest and scowled at the cackling man.

"Well? Open it,"

Laf looked at John sceptically and shook the package. No rattling, no ticking. It sounded safe. John smiled sarcastically. Laf shook it a few more times, all the while staring at Laurens, watching for any hint of foul play in his features. When he found none, he slowly tore the brown paper covering it. A small stuffed toy fell out of the wrapping, falling onto the floor. A bunny.

"Un lapin?" Laf laughed, picking the toy up.

John was halfway out the door, nodding, "send me a postcard for a different target, I'll be near the tower. The rabbit? Oui, it's cute, huh? For your son."

Laf's stomach dropped and he looked up at the now empty doorway, cursing under his breath. His heart pounded in his chest as the words of his best assassin replayed in his mind like a broken record. _He knew about him. He knew. How did he know?_

00

Eliza curled into Alexander's side as golden beams of light shone through the window pane. The latter brushed a strand of hair out of her face, her gentle breathing blowing it in front of her eyes as she slept peacefully. Alexander couldn't help but smile at his wife. He moved his hand down to the baby bump between them. He felt movement, a kick. He breathed a laugh at the sensation of it, sending tingles through his body. That was his child, moving, a heart beating, alive. He couldn't believe his luck.

Eliza's face twisted in her sleep and she scrunched her eyes up as she moved onto her back, waking up. Alex leaned on his elbow and smiled at her. She looked up and beamed back.

"G'morning," he whispered.

"Morning, love. Why are you so happy?" she smirked at him. He loved that.

His eyes creased at the corners with the strength of his grin, "we're having a baby."

"Yes... Are you just getting that now, dear? We've known that for months now."

He rolled onto his back and laughed, "no, no. I know, but it feels real. He's kicking, he's alive. Our boy."

"And how do we know he's a boy for certain? You never know, he could be a she. Goodness, however would you cope then?" she rolled her eyes.

Alexander bumped into her shoulder, "you know I will be happy either way. Their gender makes little difference to me. But _they_ are alive and well, as are you, that is all that matters to me."

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She giggled and sat up, "are we getting up, dear?"

"Yes. We should. I'll make some breakfast," he offered.

Eliza shook her head, "no. No, I'll do that. It's my job."

"Nonsense, a husband can do the work expected of a wife. I expect nothing of you but your love. Besides, I don't have a job to go to, do I?"

She made a sound of agreement. Alexander pushed himself out of the sheets and set to work in the kitchen, pouring water into a pot and putting it on the stove to boil. He added eggs to the water and waited till the it began to bubble when he started to time them. He toasted some bread and spread butter over them. The kettle whistled on the stove indicating the water for the tea had boiled. Alexander wrapped a tea towel around his hand and removed it, pouring the water into a teapot.

Eliza's footsteps approached Alex and he felt her arms wrap around his waist. He smiled to himself as the baby bump pressed into his back. He picked up the eggs with a spoon and put them into cups. Eliza sat down at the kitchen table, carrying the tray with the teapot and cups. She poured the water into the cups, adding tea bags and two lumps of sugar in Alex's. Grabbing a knife from the top draw, Alex sliced the toast into thin strips and chopped the tops of the eggs off, adding a small spoon to each plate. He brought them to the table and sat opposite his wife.

"Voila, dippy eggs and soldiers. Only the best for the best. Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome. And thank you for this wonderful breakfast, you didn't have to."

"No, but I wanted to," he smiled, picking up a piece of toast and dipping it into the egg.

Eliza passed him a newspaper which he glanced through briefly. Nothing of much interest. Someone started to knock on the door. Alexander looked up and Eliza sipped at her tea quickly.

"Don't worry, dear. You eat, I'll get it. No buts."

She hurried out of her seat, holding her stomach as she walked to the door. Alexander could hear muffled talking through the house, but he couldn't make out any distinct words. The voices gradually grew closer.

The door to the kitchen opened and there stood Washington beside Alexander's wife. Out of habit, Alexander rose to his feet, knocking the table and spilling some of his tea.

"Sir," he greeted, sounding a little more nervous than he had realised.

Washington didn't smile as he usually did when Alex greeted him, "Alex, listen. I- I need your assistance."

"Sir?"

Washington rubbed his face and sighed, "the assassin has killed another. I shouldn't have taken you off the case, you have worked the hardest against him."

"Who, sir?" Alex questioned. Eliza looked at him with concern written plainly in her eyes.

"A man in Spanish politics, one of great influence. This has, admittedly, raised quite the cause for alarm at Scotland Yard. You are the only one who has survived communicating with him, we need you. I need you back on the case, on my team."

Alex looked at his wife for a moment. She stared at him with pleading eyes. He turned back to Washington.

"Of course, sir. When?"

"Say, meet me in my office at noon?" he asked.

Alex agreed and Eliza showed Washington to the door. She walked swiftly back into the kitchen and sat at the table, watching her husband.

"Alexander?" she said.

"Yes, love?"

She hesitated, biting her bottom lip, "is this dangerous?"

"Everything is dangerous," he said, biting into another piece of toast, "this is no exception. But I have to do this."

She scoffed and Alex looked up. Her face was pale, her eyes wet with welling tears.

"Why? Why must you do this?" she questioned, "if it is so dangerous I don't want you to do it."

He put down his tea cup and rubbed his eyes, "because, 'Liza… I just do, okay? I just do. I must do this."

"I don't want our child to grow up fatherless. You of all people should know what that is like."

Alex stood up from his seat and took the empty plates to the sink, "don't bring that into this. It is unrelated entirely."

"It is completely related, Alexander!" she shouted, losing her temper at her husband's lack of concern, "don't you care? What about me? You would leave me widowed for the sake of some lunatic assassin? You would let your child grow up without you? You would endanger your entire family… for the sake of a ridiculous obsession?"

Alex turned around, anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach, "I don't have an obsession! Don't you see how important this is? He's killing people so brilliantly without detection. He's starting to show off and I am the key to finding him."

"Listen to yourself!" she screamed, "you need to take a long look in the mirror and realise what really matters."

" _This_ matters, Elizabeth."

She opened her mouth to argue but screwed her face up in pain, clutching her stomach. Alexander's face softened and he rushed to her side, pulling the kitchen chair forward for her to sit down. She breathed heavily, taking short and sharp gasps in. Alex fetched some water and crouched down in front of her.

"Are you alright, my love? Is it the baby?" Alexander asked, beginning to panic as he placed her hands into his.

She shook her head and pulled her hands away, "I am fine. This happens often, it shall pass momentarily."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know this happened so frequently. You didn't say."

Eliza scowled at him, "no, you've been busy with your precious case."

Alexander looked down and stood up, "perhaps you should take rest in bed."

She nodded, "yes. Perhaps. I will. Just… come home to me… to us. Please?"

Alex helped her stand and watched her walk away to their bedroom. He went to his study and pulled out the case files for the assassin. His desk was strewn with pens and parchment. In a frame stood a photograph of Alexander with Eliza and her two sisters on their wedding day. New York. He missed New York. Sometimes he wished he had never left and dragged poor Eliza along with him. London was okay, but it wasn't New York. Still, opportunity rested here, and if it was written for him to get the job at Scotland Yard, then so be it.

He sat at the desk and looked through the files. He knew them by heart by that point, but he looked for a different angle. Maybe he was missing something. Something hidden in plain sight. He laughed to himself when he flipped a photograph, literally looking from a different angle. He packed everything into a briefcase and dressed in a suit, driving in his automobile to Scotland Yard.

Washington called him into his office and they discussed the case in more depth.

"There was one more thing, Alex," Washington added.

"Yes, sir?" he answered, packing everything back into his case.

"He left an identity with the latest killing…"

Alex paused and looked up, "that's new. Well, who did he claim to be?"

Washington looked down and shifted his feet, "at the front desk of the victim's place of work, he entered as a man of maintenance."

Alexander noticed his boss' hesitation and pressed on, "a name?"

"He claimed to be named Alexander Hamilton."

Alexander stumbled backwards and almost laughed at the information, "what? That… that doesn't make sense, I never told him my name. How could he possibly know?"

Washington shrugged and sat back down at his desk, "I haven't the faintest idea. Obviously you aren't a suspect, you have a tight alibi. But this is troubling, I confess. He knows who you are, Hamilton."

Alex nodded and finished packing everything into his case, "I should get home to my wife."

"Yes, you should. And Alex?"

"Yes, sir?" he replied.

"Tread carefully. Very carefully."

Alex was excused and he headed towards the file room, searching through every record until his eyes fell on a particular case. A man by the name of John Laurens had been taken from an experimental institution, one created during the Great War. It stated that he had died before he could be interviewed. He looked at the photograph and smiled. It was him. Definitely him. He took the file back to his office.

00

John pulled his hat down and pretended to look at wanted posters on the notice board. He saw a crappy drawing titled 'greek assassin'. It didn't look like him at all. John bit back a laugh and watched as Alexander left his office carrying a case. He hid behind the cover of an overgrown indoor plant. Alex walked with his eyes on the ground, yet knowing where he was going at the same time. John felt the pistol in his coat pocket but made no move to grab it. Instead he followed him with his eyes. He wanted to know more about him. That was the man practically studying him. It intrigued John.

He stepped out from behind the plant and followed Alexander, at a distance, to his car. He got into his own and drove behind him, slowly. The car in front holding Alex didn't seem to notice. Perfect. Ten minutes later, Alex parked in front of a small row of townhouses. John parked opposite and watched from the car. Fumbling for his keys, Alex stood on the doorstep to what was presumably his house. John smiled to himself, writing down the address on a scrap piece of paper. He finally unlocked the door to his house and shut the door behind him. That was it. John lost sight on him. He already missed looking at his face. John thought it beautiful, perfectly imperfect.

"Well, what now, Jack?" he sighed to himself.

He left his car where it was and went for a walk, sightseeing. He went all through the city of London, just watching people live as normal people did. He wondered what it would have been like had things been different. Had he lived a normal life. _No time for thinking things like that._

He passed through a small market and bought some food, heading back to the street where he parked his car. He sat inside of it and ate the food, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He'd been given a stack of postcards instead of the usual one. He was bored despite having so much work. He looked through them, countries from all over the world, different cities, some he'd never been to before. But there was one, he wasn't supposed to kill the subject, he was supposed to watch them. Alexander Hamilton. Just as well, he supposed, he was going to do that regardless of whether he was getting paid or not. The money was just an added bonus.

Automobiles drove past his car, but other than that and the distant chiming of Big Ben marking the hour, everything was quiet. Too quiet. He hated it. Nothing was happening. He sang parts of a forgotten lullaby his mother must have sung to him at some point during his time at the institute. Before she went away. Or maybe she hadn't and he'd heard it somewhere else. He couldn't remember. He stopped singing. _Too much thinking, Jack._

He slept in the backseat of the car and woke with the sun. He cracked his neck and climbed back into the front seat, knocking the gearstick and wincing as the pain shot through his leg. He glanced briefly at Hamilton's front door and widened his eyes when he saw the handle going down and the door opening. A short woman wearing a long overcoat and a long, blue dress walked out with a bag around her shoulder. John scowled and lifted up his gun in boredom having not played with anyone in so long. He dropped it, however, when he saw the bump on her stomach. _With child._ John sighed and sank slightly into his seat, watching her turn the corner in the direction of the market. He considered the door for a moment. She didn't lock it. Alexander was in there. He could always go in and say hello. He laughed at the thought, but then he was getting out of the car, shutting the door and advancing towards the house. He rapped on the door and patted his pocket still holding the gun, bouncing on his heels. _Just to say hello._


	4. Chapter 4

"Shit, Jack, what are you doing?" John asked himself. He silently thanked God that no one answered and walked back to the car, cursing himself for even thinking of compromising the mission.

He didn't even know what he would have said had Alexander answered. It was a stupid move, even for John. He sat in the driver's seat, drumming on the wheel. He reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed a pen and parchment, leaning on the stack of postcards. He still wanted to leave something for Hamilton. He wrote a letter to him, making sure to use his less dominant hand. No traceable handwriting. He signed it Achilles and slowly got out of the car again. He walked back into the city, getting more food and exploring a little more.

He found more market stalls and stopped in the centre of them all, watching all of the merchants and customers, bargaining prices for stupid and useless items. In the crowd of thousands, one woman caught his eyes. The woman who was with child whom he had almost shot. He raised his height, lifting his heels. She was smiling sweetly at a merchant selling breads. Her smile was enchanting. Even John looked at her twice, his senses drawn by her beauty. He shook the thoughts and advanced towards her, taking his chances that she wouldn't have received the description Alex must have given of him.

"Good morning, ma'am," he used a Scottish accent.

The woman turned, looking slightly alarmed, but not breaking her charming smile, "I'm sorry, do I know you? Forgive me, my memory is appalling."

"No, no, ma'am. I'm a colleague of Alexander Hamilton's. I was only wondering if you could pass on a wee message to him regarding the assassin case?"

She looked around the market, looking for something, "I'm sure I can. It's just that I thought this case wasn't one to be so outwardly spoken. Is it not a case kept in confidence?"

"Sorry, ma'am. I assumed you could be trustworthy," John smiled, passing her an address on a sheet.

She took it and looked up at John, furrowing her brows, "forgive me, sir, I'm not sure I understand."

John looked around the market, too, "could you pass this on to him? It's an address of a place we believe could be linked to the case. It is most essential that he receives this address."

She nodded and followed the paper, tucking it into her purse, "of course. I will deliver it right away."

John tipped his hat at her, "thank you, ma'am. Have a good day, and congratulations are in order, the child."

He walked away, becoming just another member of the crowd before she could enquire any further. He hid himself away into a back alley and let out the breath he was holding. He really could have fucked everything up there. There was still time for that. He was going to wait at that address. Keeping a distance from the woman, John went back to the car and watched through the window for any movement in the house. None. he groaned and started the automobile up, driving to the address he'd given the woman, hoping Alexander would be smart enough, or stupid enough, to go to it.

00

"Alexander!" Eliza called up the stairs.

He walked down the stairs, his nose stuck in a file, "yes, love?"

Eliza pulled out the note from her bag, "I ran into a colleague of yours. He told me to give you this in regards to the assassin case?"

Alex looked up and furrowed his brows, "what? That- that doesn't make any sense, sweetheart. Let me see."

She handed him the paper and he looked at it carefully. He mumbled under his breath and moved it into the light to see better.

"Hardly anyone knows about the case, and they certainly don't know that you're connected to me. What did this colleague look like exactly? I need you to be very specific. Come and sit down, I'll make tea."

Waiting for the kettle to boil the water, Alex grabbed a pen and piece of parchment from his office and brought them down to the kitchen table. The kettle began to whistle and he picked it up, maybe too quickly as it spilled onto the floor, narrowly missing him, and poured the water into a teapot. He put everything on a floral tray, adding the tea bags, and sat it in the middle of the table in front of his wife.

"What was he like? Everything you remember."

Eliza stared at Alex in confusion for a moment and then continued, "well, he had sort of long, curly hair, tied back. He was fairly tall. Handsome, I suppose?"

Alex quirked an eyebrow at her, but wrote everything down.

"Anything else?"

Eliza poured the water into Alexander's cup after her own, "he had a lot of freckles, dark eyes. He had an accent like the Scots, y'know, sort of like that of your father's, but it sounded wrong."

Alex cringed at the mention of his father but ignored the feelings climbing through his whole body. He reached for the file and looked at the photo there, matching it against his notes. The accent was strange, when he and Alex had met it had been English, very English. Then again, he reasoned, an assassin could easily change their accent to avoid detection. It's what he would do after all. He turned the photograph around and pushed it towards his wife who frowned and nodded immediately.

"Yes. Yes, that was him. Who is he?" she asked, starting to betray anxiety.

Alex smiled at her, he didn't want to worry her, "it's no one. Just, someone linked to the case. The address… did he say anything else?"

"Only that it was important that you received it. I expect you'll want to see Washington about this?"

Standing up, taking the file and description with him, Alex drank the rest of his tea and pushed in his chair, "not just yet. I just want to look over all this myself first. Thank you, 'Liza. do you need anything?"

She shook her head, "oh no, no, I'm alright, dear. You go ponder over all of this. I think I'll go run myself a bath and then sort out the groceries."

Alex kissed her temple and took everything back to his office, everything strewn on his desk, his wall littered with notes and theories. He stared at the image next to the description Eliza had given him. He moved towards the window and looked out of it self consciously. Whoever he was, _John Laurens_ , he knew who Alexander was, and apparently he knew who his wife was. Alex felt his heart rate pick up and paced his study, his mind trailing back through everything. He needed to remember everything. He pinned the photograph to his wall and looked closely at it. He looked younger there. Then he checked the file he had found it in. _John Laurens: deceased._ Well, apparently he was back from the dead. The dates showed that it was in the late 1910s when he supposedly died, during the Great War.

Alex groaned into his hands. This was bad, really bad. He knew so much. Alexander wondered whether he knew his own address. The knock on the door. Alex never did answer it. What if? _No, that would have been too unlikely… or could it have been? No._

Alexander memorised the address on the parchment and waited out the day in his office, planning. He packed a pistol into his inside pocket and sat with his wife for dinner, watching for when the sky grew dark. He excused himself.

"I might be out for a while, dear. I'm going to see Washington," he lied. "Don't wait up for me, get some rest. Love you."

"Love you, too. Come home safe?"

Alexander squeezed her hand and stood in the threshold of the front door, "always, my love."

He pulled his car door open and drove to the address. An old apartment building, no longer in use. Abandoned. Alex's palms grew sweaty as he thought about everything. This could be it. He could see him here. This was so damn dangerous and stupid. Everything about it only made it more attractive to him, like a fly drawn to the venus-fly trap, enchanted by its beauty only to meet a terrible demise. Okay, so that thought didn't help Alexander's nerves, but it was true. Before he knew it he was getting out of the car, the gun clutched tightly in his hand, finger ready on the trigger.

The door was unlocked, his intuition telling him to go down to the basement. He wiped sweat from his brow and walked down the stairs, painstakingly slowly. His heart was pounding in his chest, his body filled with adrenaline. The lights down there were on, emitting an eerie white light over the scene. One hovered over a table, upon it an open case. Alex kept the pistol in front of him as he walked towards it slowly, terrified and filled with curiosity. A dangerous combination.

He looked inside the case and saw teddies, rattles, blankets. Everything somebody would receive when expecting a baby. He picked one of the blankets up, blue and faded by time. Thread from one corner had been picked at, the place where a label or enitial might have been, illegible to Alexander. He let the pistol drop to his side as he inspected the case closer. He saw a note amongst all of the items.

 _For the baby - A_

It was written in neat cursive, a style Alex always found pleasing to the eye. He shook one of the teddies, nothing. No strange sounds. Perhaps they were innocent child play things, nothing more. He closed and picked up the case, thinking about the note as he glanced around the area. He was alone, and it unnerved him. Where was he? He certainly _was_ here. _For the baby - A. A. A._ Achilles? It was him. John Laurens. At least he had that against him, he knew his name, too. And a name was a powerful thing.

He went back to his car and drove home, the streets clear and the city asleep. The lamplights were dimming, reflecting off of puddles on the pavement. _London weather. Always so gloomy._ The lights were off when he opened the door and there he found a note on the welcome mat. He picked it up and flipped the piece of paper.

 _I'm bored, Alexander. Won't you play my game? I'll hide and you can seek me. Tick tock, Mr. Hamilton. I hope you like the gifts I have sent, they aren't dangerous, don't fret. I have no use for them anymore. I'm sure your child will appreciate them more so than I. - A_

"Shit," he cursed. _He knew his address._

He ran up the stairs and clutched his chest in relief when he saw that Eliza was well, snoring under the sheets, the lamp still on. He kissed her forehead and went back downstairs for a drink. Whisky. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped at the drink, pulling the case of toys in front of him and inspecting each one slowly and thoroughly. It appeared as though the assassin was being truthful. Alexander laughed to himself, this case which had fascinated him for years, he was involved so deeply now. He was enraptured by it, by this man. The fear only interested him more, like an adrenaline junkie craving the thrill. He finished the glass and poured himself another, writing notes till the sun had again risen.

Eliza came down the stairs and into the kitchen, covering her mouth with a yawn, "Alexander, love, have you been up all night?"

Alex didn't look up from his writings, only nodding as a sign of recognition. Eliza sighed and brewed coffee, replacing his whisky glass with the cup.

"I've told you that you shouldn't strain yourself like this. Your mind will surely burn up sooner or later. And I'd prefer it not to do so whatsoever. What are these?" she said, gesturing towards the case of baby items.

Alexander looked up and hesitated, "oh, they're… uh, they're for the baby. I got them last night."

She picked up one of the blankets and felt the wool of it, "they're beautiful. But you better hope that it's a boy. Everything here is as blue as the sky."

Alex made a sound of agreement and turned back to the work. Eliza made them both some toast and ate beside him, but Alex didn't touch the food. She sighed and took the plate away, knowing better than to disturb him again. She left.

00

John sat on a bench in the park people watching. He liked people watching. It was too risky to sit in his automobile outside of Alexander's house now. Too obvious. He considered his options for his assignment as he watched a little boy in a grey cap and girl playing together by the lake. The boy was tall, but no older than nine, short hair only just obscuring his eyes. The little girl was younger, her hair long and curled. Her white stockings were grass-stained and her pinafore covered in mud. She looked around the age of six, adventure a clear glimmer in her eyes. They looked so alike that John had to assume they were siblings. He smirked as they played with a kite, their mother talking with a friend. John almost felt bad for the little girl, knowing she would likely be scolded for the mess she had made of her clothes. They pushed and shoved each other, both growing aggravated and gradually more violent.

John stood up, ready to leave. The kite blew over the lake, the wind was strong, too strong for two kids. He looked at their mother again, still chatting away, not paying attention. He ran forwards and stepped in front of the children, blocking them as they started to stumble on the banks of the water. He pulled the string down, moving it away and then crouched down in front of the children, holding the little girl's shoulders.

"You need to watch where you're going, you both could have ended up in there with the ducks, and I doubt you swim as well in those clothes. Go on, play with the kite on the grass, it's safer, away from the lake," he straightened the boy's cap and stood up, wincing as his knee cracked, "off you go. Be nicer to each other. Strong winds today."

He turned and left, the kids mumbling a shy thank you. He closed his eyes and counted to ten as he walked away from the scene. _Sentiment is a dangerous defect, John._ He turned his collar against the cold and found his car, driving to the nearest food stand and getting a snack. He rested his head against the steering wheel and groaned to himself. He picked up a postcard and glanced at it. There were a few targets across the country, easy ones he wouldn't have to travel abroad for. He picked one at random and drove, plotting on his way. The rain hammered down on the bonnet of the car, crashing against the metal. He rolled his eyes and pulled into an lay-by after hours upon hours of driving, pulling his coat tighter around himself and lying down in the back seat. The sound of cars passing became less frequent and he allowed himself to attempt to relax, stirring when the headlights shone through the windows followed by the racing speed of the cars in the night. He sighed finally and sat up, admitting his defeat. He got out of the car and walked around. He was bordering Scotland now, a half hour or so from the target's place of residence.

He found an abandoned field and sat on the gate, dangling his legs as the moon shone on the puddles. The rain had finally stopped and the clouds had cleared, stars visible once more. He threw his head back and looked up, picking out the constellations his mother had pointed out to him in the institute before he had to go to his training. He pulled out the crinkled, age-worn photograph he had taken from his old apartment from his inside pocket and held it in the moonlight. He sniffed despite having no cold, not allowing himself to be overcome with emotion. _No emotion, no sentiment, no nothing. Nothing._

He maintained a cool detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did it was as if they were already dead - walking meat bags waiting to be despatched to the butcher. He thought of them as meeting their destiny and he was merely the conduit. Everyone had to die sometime, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just happy and oblivious one second and gone the next. Simple. Convenient. Painless. That's what he told himself. That's what he had to tell himself. Of course, as of the past few months, he had broken a few of his own rules. Occupational hazard. Onwards he went.

The horizon glowed a lighter shade of blue, indicating the rise of dawn. He rubbed his face against the exhaustion and jumped off the gate, walking back to the car. It felt further away now that he was aware of what he was doing, no longer letting his mind wonder. He found the vehicle and started it up again, driving the rest of the way and past the border. _Scotland, maybe that accent would come in handy now._

The house stood alone, detached, and solitary from the rest of the houses in the area. He checked the postcard, now holding more detail than they used to. _They'd heard the complaint, then._ It was definitely the right place, and by the looks of it, the house wasn't the only thing isolated about the place. The man he was tasked to deal with was known to be a loner, no wife, no children, no family. Easy. _Boring._

He pulled onto the long drive and looked through the boot of the automobile, searching through his weapon case. Guns, knives, ropes, etc. The standard for John. He took the rope and a knife, scoffing at the situation. He wanted a raise. He made a mental note to ask Laf about it the next time he saw him, that was _if_ he saw him again. Laf didn't look happy when they last met. _So worth it for the look on his face._ John smirked and tried the door, surprised to find it unlocked. Then again, people were always so trusting. A foolish mistake. He made no abrupt movements, nor any alarming sounds. He wanted to remain as unnoticed as possible until he was ready to get on with the kill. He locked the door, including all of the bolts. Lotta locks for a man living alone. He almost tripped over a pair of mudstained boots, silently cursing and biting his lip. He pulled it off.

Water could be heard running from upstairs and John assumed the man was washing in the early morning. Maybe he had a job to get to, or just an early bird. Either way, he wasn't going to get anything he had planned done. He crept up the stairs, knife in his mouth and pistol - which he now always kept on his person - gripped tightly in his hand. He didn't plan to use the pistol, but he couldn't be too careful. _Plans don't always work out, always safe to have a back up. Precautions._

He held his breath and rested his hand on the doorknob, waiting. The tap was running and it sounded as if he was drawing a bath. Waiting for the sound of him getting in the tub, John tried the handle slowly, finding it unlocked. He smiled and pushed it open further, hoping he would get the satisfaction of catching the man by surprise. _Yes, facing the other way. Perfect._ He shut the door quietly, evading detection. He sat on the floor, pistol in his pocket and knife balancing between his fingers. He cleared his throat at last and laughed as the man struggled in the bathtub, slipping and splashing water everywhere. He stood up and sat on the edge of bathroom counter, tutting and waiting for him to stop shouting.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked, sounding impatient. _He was growing impatient._

The man gripped the handles either side of the tub, failing in his attempts to stand up, "who are you? How did you find me?"

"Wrong questions, old man."

He sat up straighter, smiling maliciously.

"Why- but- I mean, why- why are you here?" the man stuttered, fear frozen in his features.

"I was sent here, obviously. Do make an effort to keep up."

The man sobbed, "are you going to kill me?"

John stood up and sighed, nodding his head as if bored. _He was bored._

"But I'm gonna be nice. I'll kill you nicely. I'm in a good mood, but I am going to make a mess of your body so it looks worse than it is. I have a point to prove so, you know how it is. You won't mind, you'll be a wee bit preoccupied with, y'know, death."

"Please, I have children," he begged, finally dragging himself out of the tub, but John still obscured the doorway.

"Mhm, no, I don't think you do. Okay, I'm annoyed now, be a good lad and turn around, yeah?" he said, advancing towards the man.

The man whimpered and attempted to make a run for it, barging past John and opening the door, running down the stairs. John rolled his eyes and pulled out the pistol. _Plans don't always work out._ He stood at the top of the stairs and cracked his neck, watching the man struggle with the door bolts. He almost felt bad. He scowled at himself for even thinking that. He lifted the gun, breathing a sad sigh.

"It was going to be painless," he said to the man, guilt dripping in his voice, walking down the stairs.

The man cowered, sinking to the floor, shutting his eyes tightly, preparing himself. John felt a pang in his chest for him, a feeling he couldn't describe, it was new. He pulled the trigger, unshaking hands, precision his best trait. It was like a surgery, knowing just where to shoot. The man fell, blood pouring from his chest, pooling around him. John dropped the pistol and went to the bathroom, turning off the bath tap and stood in front of the looking-glass. He splashed his face with water and shouted as mightily as his lungs would allow, loud and pained, the noise ricocheting around the house; it acted almost in the place of the the church bells as they knelled, signifying the passing of life, of pain and mourning.

He pulled at his hair and sat on the floor for a moment or two. He didn't know what was wrong with him, he'd done this so many times before. Why should he only now feel remorse? It ate away at him, his behaviour. He was going against all of his rules. He gripped his coat pocket where he knew the photograph still rested and lifted himself off the ground. He went downstairs and ignored the corpse laying at the bottom, his body lying like a ghoulish mannequin. He searched the man's cupboards and found a bottle of whisky, pouring himself a glass and exploring the man's home. _Don't get involved, just leave._

"Pull yourself together, Jack," he mumbled.

He moved the body out of the way of the door and unlocked the bolts, walking swiftly back to the car where he hit his head, slowly and depressingly, on the steering wheel. He chucked the rope and knife into the back seat and reversed off of the drive, heading back to London where he would find a hotel to stay in. The car was too uncomfortable to stay in now.


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing in London?" John asked, glaring at Lafayette who sat next to him at the bar, glaring back.

He drank from his small glass and drummed his fingers on the hard wood of the bar, "your reassessment."

"I don't _need_ a reassessment."

Laf handed him an envelope, filled with cash, "the bonus is for killing the old man in Scotland so quickly."

John tense at the mention of it. He wanted to forget that assignment. Wanted to pretend it never happened. He took the envelope and tucked it into his inside pocket, near the pistol. He called the bartender over - a handsome man, cleaning a dirty glass with an old rag - and ordered a drink. He winked at the man as he handed it to him, relishing in pride as he turned pink. Laf scoffed at John's show of affection towards other men and finished the glass, ordering another.

"I want you to meet me at this address. This is your new apartment. The bosses have generously paid for everything, rent free, so do try your hardest not to kill the landlady, will you?"

"Whatever, man," he took the piece of paper Laf had put on the bar and stood up, taking his drink with him.

"Hey! Listen to me, and listen carefully," he grabbed his arm, pulling him back down, "this reassessment is important. I know about you and those kids at the park. What's wrong with you?"

"They were kids, I don't hurt kids," he looked down at his glass, spinning it on the bar.

Laf shook his head, "no, but you'll threaten them?"

John looked around, "that's different. How is little George? Like the rabbit?"

"Don't play games with me. This isn't a game. You're getting soft, you need the reassessment."

"No, I don't."

"Well, if you don't need it, there's no need to worry is there? Just an hour of your time. Better than going around saving children who you have no business saving."

"I'm not- I'm not _worried._ I just don't need to go."

"It's happening, meet me there. No buts."

Laf stood up and left John alone at the bar. He eyed the bartender, feeling reckless. The man hovered over the bar, leaning on his arms.

"Everything okay, sir?" he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

John chuckled, "I was just wondering if you were going my way?"

"And what way would that be, sir?" he bit his lip.

John finished his drink and looked into the bartender's deep brown eyes, "that rather depends on what way you're going."

The man stood up straighter and walked back around the bar, whispering in John's ear, "my place isn't too far from here."

"Lead the way, sweetheart."

00

John stared at the ceiling, naked in the bartender's bed. He was snoring next to him. The sky was dark, lights dim and the stars barely visible in the polluted London sky. He pulled his hair back out of his face and slipped out of the bed, unnoticed. He pulled his clothes on and picked up his shoes, sneaking out of the apartment. He checked the time on his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to the address Lafayette had given him. He groaned getting into his automobile, parked outside the bar _._ He started the engine and gripped the wheel. _Damn reassessment._ He didn't need a reassessment. He was more than capable of doing his job, better than the others.

The roads were clear and he got there quickly. Laf was waiting outside of the building, stood next to a slightly shorter man. Hercules. His old trainer at the institute, the one who did this to him. _The bosses really had a thing for Greek mythology._ He waited in the car for an extra moment. He really didn't want to be reassessed. Laf rapped on the window of the car, opening the door impatiently.

"Come on. Out," he pulled him by the arm out of the car.

John groaned, "I am more than capable of getting out by myself, asshole."

Hercules had his hands behind his back, shorter than John but intimidating to him all the same, "you've grown, haven't you?"

John didn't answer him, only glaring as they walked up the stairs to an already unlocked apartment. Lafayette handed John a key and gestured for him to sit in an armchair by the window. He did what he was told, sinking into it and gripping his arm with his more dominant hand, nails breaking the skin there.

Hercules and Laf sat down on a sofa opposite him, folded arms with bottles of beer.

"So, J-"

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" he yelled, stopping Hercules from saying anymore, pulling his pistol out of his pocket, "the name is Achilles, say Achilles."

Hercules pulled his hands up in defence, "okay, alright, Achilles. If that's what you're going by these days. _Achilles_ , tell me, how are you feeling?"

John scoffed, pointing the gun at his old trainer, "fine? What are you, a therapist?"

"No. But… are you having any regrets? Anxieties?"

He shook his head, "no. I'm not. This is ridiculous, can you go now?"

Laf leaned forward, pulling a few photographs out of his pocket and passing them to Hercules. John rolled his eyes. They were going to ask him how each one made him feel, weren't they? Hercules raised his eyebrows and turned one to face John.

"What do you think looking at this?" he asked.

It was an old photograph of an unofficial hanging, a white man in the forest. He was handsome. A little bit not alive, but cute.

John leaned forward, pistol still pointing at the man, "uhm, good legs."

Lafayette rolled his eyes, gesturing for Hercules to move on.

"And this? A dead dog."

John laughed, "are we done yet? Seriously, I have better things to do."

Laf took the photographs back from Hercules and turned to John. John put the pistol back in his pocket, folding his arms, nipping the skin with his nails again.

Hercules sighed, "he's fine."

"One more," the frenchman smirked.

Laf put his hand into his inside pocket, pulling out an old, mauled photo. John recognised it at once and stood up, clenching his fists, cracking the knuckles.

"Where did you get that?" he said, voice dripping with anxiety. He closed his eyes, feeling stupid for letting it show.

Laf turned the photograph towards him, lips curling in the corners, "who is she?"

"Nobody. She is no one," he spat, "where did you get it?"

John pulled the pistol back out when he didn't receive an answer, cursing, and hovering his finger over the trigger. He saw red, filled with anger that he would even dare to bring that up. Laf dropped the photograph on the table and stood up, too, hands up.

"I found it when I searched your automobile. Is that your mother?"

Hercules picked the photo up, inspecting it, "oh, I remember her. Eleanor. What _did_ happen to her?"

John's blood was boiling now, a mix of anger and panic, "get out! Both of you!"

Neither man moved. He fired a warning shot, narrowly missing Laf's head.

"Now!" he yelled.

Laf dropped another briefcase on the table, "your last assignment. I want it done by February."

They walked out, Lafayette looking pleased with himself. John slammed the door shut behind them and bolted it shut. Looking at the postcard, he saw who his next victim was. _Alexander Hamilton._ He locked himself in the bathroom and ran the tap of the bath, pulling his hair out of the ponytail. He undressed, leaving the pistol where it was easily obtainable and got into the scalding water. He didn't care that it burned his skin, he let it. He covered his face, angry and confused. He didn't like that Hercules knew Laf, Hercules knew the most about him, he almost let his name slip. Lafayette probably knew it now. John was overwhelmed with dread at the thought. He held his breath and dunked his head under the water, testing how long he could bare it, counting in his head. _Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty, a minute._ He came back up, gasping, face burning from the heat. He gripped the side of the tub, reminding him of the last job. He scrunched his eyes up against the images flashing across his mind and pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling dirty and ashamed. Guilty. Guilt was so new to him, he hated it. And now he was being tasked with killing the one thing that had interested him, truly interested him. He didn't want to. He couldn't even imagine himself doing it.

He stood up, naked, dripping wet, and stood in the cold bathroom, staring at his reflection with disgust. Self-loathing. He didn't understand why he was only now feeling like this, he'd killed so many. _He'd killed so many._ He couldn't even count how many. He felt tears, hot and filled with emotion, dripping down his cheek. He sniffed, wiping them away, trying to remove any evidence of him behaving in that way. It was late. He doubted he would be able to sleep well naturally. He rooted through the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of barbiturates. _Those would do._ He took a few and double checked all of the locks and rooms in the apartment. Mostly satisfied, he put the pistol under his pillow and wrapped the sheets around himself tightly. Feeling the dread slowly dissipate as the drugs took effect, his eyes felt heavy and he closed them, falling into a deep sleep which he didn't wake from till the late afternoon the next day.

00

Alex brought Eliza tea on a tray to where she lay under the sheets. He showed the midwife out of the door, thanking her for coming by to the house under such short notice. She had recommended that Eliza remain under bedrest for a few days, only moving when it was absolutely necessary. Alexander took this very seriously and took care of everything for her despite her protests.

"Alexander, I am having a baby, I am not dying, and I am certainly not the Queen. You need not treat me as such," she grumbled as he helped her sit up with the pillows.

He laughed at her, "you are certainly a queen to me. And I'll treat you like one if I want to. You heard what the midwife said, you need rest."

"I just want to meet him now, I'm tired of being pregnant," she sighed.

"It won't be long now, love. Few weeks, maybe even days. Speaking of, I think I'll finally get around to cleaning the nursery today."

She sipped at her tea and furrowed a brow, "I thought you were working today?"

"From home until he's born, maybe a little after. I want to take care of you," he perched next to her, sweeping her loose hair behind her ear.

She chuckled, "I can take care of myself, Alexander."

"I know," he smiled and kissed her softly, "I'll bring you something to eat soon, shout of me if you need anything. No getting up, that's an order, ma'am. To honour and obey."

"Oh, please, dear. We both know that it's the other way around in this marriage."

He laughed on his way out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly. He occupied himself in the nursery, sweeping the floors and dusting the rug. He opened the curtains and felt a pang of excitement fill him. He never realised how much he wanted to be a father until he was so close to fatherhood. It terrified him; he was scared of becoming what his father was to him. He wanted to be better than that, so much better.

He pulled his jacket on and left for the market. It was busier today than usual. He got what he needed and went for a walk after taking the groceries home and checking that Eliza was well. He trailed through the park and along the main roads. He walked past apartment buildings and council houses where children played in the road, not a care in the world. He smiled to himself, but then he heard the screeching of tires on the road, and the sound of a speeding engine. He turned to see a black automobile racing down the street towards the kids playing. He yelled for them to move out of the way, terrified that he was too late. A man in a hat ran into the road, pulling a little girl out of the way of the car and onto Alex's side of the pavement. He knelt down in front of her, brushing her down and checking she was alright. He sounded American, a southern drawl clear in his voice.

"Didn't I see you at the park, darlin'? That's twice I've saved you now, you've gotta be more careful. Are you alright? Hurt anywhere?" he said, squeezing her hands.

She shook her head and looked up at Alex where he stood observing the scene.

"Why don't you go and get yourself home? Your mother will be worried about you."

She ran away, back to a little boy and they walked down the street, sticking to the path. The stranger in the hat stood back up, cracking his knee in the process and turned around. He and Alex locked eyes, both in a state of shock. The man's eyes were wide. It was him, the assassin. Alex's voice caught in his throat and he opened his mouth to shout for help. The man he had learned to be named John Laurens looked around at the empty street and covered his mouth, pushing him into a back alley, backing him against the wall. Alex kicked in protest, catching John's shin. He groaned and put more pressure into keeping Alex still.

"Shut up! I'm not gonna hurt you," he pleaded, still covering his mouth.

Alex still kicked, trying to pull John's hands away from his mouth so that he could yell. John moved them both further into the alley, up a fire escape and through on open window, bolting it shut behind him with one hand, the other wrapped around Alexander's neck and stopping him from screaming. He pushed him down into an armchair and pleaded for him to be quiet.

"Please, I swear to God that I'm not going to hurt you. Just don't scream," he eased his hand from Alex's mouth, slowly stepping back from him, "if I was going to, believe me, I would tell you."

Alexander sank far back into the chair in fear, cowering, "I don't- I don't understand."

John paced the room, pulling his hair out of his face, "I'm not gonna hurt you. What's not to understand?"

He took off his coat, pulling out a few weapons - pistol, knife, rope, etc, - and threw them into an empty case on the other side of the room. He was wearing only a t-shirt and suspenders to hold up his pants. He knelt down in front of Alex and put a knife in his hand, "here, take this if it makes you feel better."

He kicked his shoes off and continued to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"See? I'm not armed, I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, sounding slightly frantic.

"Why not?" Alexander asked, not sure why.

"Because, I- I can't. I don't want to. Does it matter?" he opened a cupboard and poured a glass of whisky, "do you- do you want a drink?"

Alexander didn't say anything, only stared at the assassin with raised eyebrows.

"Right… yeah. That's probably smart. Here," he drank some of his own drink to show Alex that it was safe and gave it to him, taking the bottle for himself and sitting in a different armchair.

Alexander eyed the drink for a second, deciding it was most likely safe, and drank it. He fidgeted in the chair, not knowing what to do, flipping the knife between his fingers. The sun was going down early, winter. The sky was growing dark. He looked out of the window and watched it, but he could feel John's gaze on him, burning through him.

"You're American, then?" he said finally, turning to face him again.

"In a way. You are, too," he took a chug of the bottle, pulling a face as it burned his throat.

"No," he replied, "I'm Puerto Rican."

John looked up, frowning, "no. No, I'd know one of my own. You don't sound Puerto Rican."

"Neither do you, you sound like you're from the South."

"Touché."

It went silent for a few minutes, neither man wanting to look at the other. Alex leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and holding his head in his hands, laughing.

"What is it? Why are you laughing?" John asked, confused.

"This! Why am I not dead? Why haven't you killed me?" he yelled, still laughing, unable to stop.

"Why do you _want_ me to?"

Alexander shook his head, "I don't… that's not what I mean. I just don't understand. I am completely at your mercy, and we're having a drink. Christ, my wife is at home and I'm having a drink with an assassin."

He threw his head back in laughter. John stood up, refilling Alexander's glass after showing him the bottle was safe, taking a swig from it.

"I'm gonna be honest, I don't know why you're still alive. I really should kill you, I've been told, no, _ordered…_ to kill you," he picked up a black briefcase and handed it to Hamilton, "see for yourself."

Alexander opened it and looked through it, searching through the files of records and papers. All about him. His schedule, his address, his work, his relations. Everything on him since he moved to England. His childhood was there, which didn't make sense, he'd burned any records of that, lying about his age and where he came from. He was surprised at some of the information in the case. How could they have possibly known that?

"Jesus…"

"They're probably going to have me killed for this," John sighed to himself.

Alexander shut the case and turned back to the man opposite him, "well, you'd probably escape. You're looking fairly good for a deceased man, John Laurens."

He had John then, he stood up and took the case back, noticeably unnerved.

"How do you know my name? That- you shouldn't know that."

Alexander shrugged, "found your file."

"I was told all of my files were burned," he looked angry, but more scared.

"Yeah, I thought all of my records had been burned, too."

John shuddered in the cold apartment, rubbing his arms. He traced his fingers over lines of scars, digging his nails into them, drawing blood. Alex cringed just watching him.

"Where did you get those?" he asked hesitantly.

"I… I did those back at the, uh…" he bit his lip and shut his eyes.

"Experimental war institution?" Alex finished, wanting to make the most out of the situation given that he could be killed at any moment.

"How do you… right, right, the destroyed file that wasn't destroyed."

He sat up straighter, fidgeting with the whisky glass, "I don't fully understand what that is, exactly."

John walked towards the fireplace and poked the wood there, rubbing his hands together in front of it, "I'm not so sure you'd want to understand."

"Try me."

"It's, uh… it was this place in Yorkshire. It burned down. _I_ burned it down."

"But what was its purpose?"

"What it says on the tin. It was an experimental war institution. I was an experimental war project in an experimental war institution. What more do you want me to say?"

"What does that have to do with the marks on your arms?" Alex pressed.

"Jesus, you ask a _lot_ of questions, Hamilton."

"Do you have my answers?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because," Alex started, not knowing why he continued, "your case has driven me to the point of insanity for the past few years and I'd like to think that me neglecting my family for that period of time was worth it. I can't stop thinking about you, you're all that's on my mind. I want to know everything. What you eat, how you live, why… you kill. I want to know your motive. Everything, I want to know everything."

"Well, I want to know about you, too. This isn't an interrogation. It works both ways."

He sat back in the chair and huffed.

"Fine, fire away."

"Okay… do you only sleep with women?"

Alexander rolled his eyes, holding up his ring finger, "I'm a married man."

"That's not answering the question."

"I don't engage in relationships with men, if that's what you mean," he lied.

John grinned, "well, you haven't tried this one."

Alexander scoffed, "you're very open."

"You didn't seem to mind at the bar."

He didn't reply, face flushing. John moved closer to him, refilling his glass again. Alex could feel his breath he was that close, the stench of liquor was strong. Alexander shuddered beneath him. John sat on the arm of the chair, next to him, kicking his legs.

"I am _so_ gonna be murdered."

"Why don't you come to the station? We could protect you."

John chuckled, "if I did that, I'd be executed. Hanged in Parliament. And I'd deserve it, too. Either way, I'm going to die. My best chance is to run or do the deed myself. I'll decide at the end of the month."

"Why at the end of the month?"

John turned to Alex, brushing a strand of the latter's hair out of his eyes, "because… that's when they want you dead by. I've only stayed in London because I had to warn you. If I don't do it, they'll hire someone else."

"Yes, but why do they want me dead? I don't understand."

"You said it yourself. You've been working on my case for years and they know that I… grew a certain affection… for you. I'm sorry, they must see that as dangerous. You're almost onto them through me."

"Who are _they_?" he asked, sinking lower into the armchair.

"I have absolutely no idea."

"You don't know who you work for?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

" _Really_?"

" _Yes,_ " Hamilton spat.

"Mhm, I think if you went far back enough, you'll find we work for the same people."

Alexander gripped the knife in his hand tightly, "oh, fuck off."

He stood up pointing the knife at John. The assassin stared, looking amused and disappointed at the same time.

"Do you even know what you're doing with that? Would you like me to help you? C'mere."

John pulled him forward by the arm and nudged the knife up to a point under the bulge in his neck, adding slight pressure, hand on top of Alex's.

Hamilton's face was inches away from him, John's knee pressed into Alex's crotch. He pulled his arm back and dropped the knife on the carpeted ground. He cupped John's cheek and brushed his thumb over it, looking deep into his eyes. Lust took over Alexander as he leaned forwards, connecting their lips, biting down on John's lower lip. He laughed as Alex pushed him backwards; John had to hold onto the other man's waist to stop himself from falling. He kissed back, flicking his tongue out and running his other hand through Alex's hair. Hamilton rubbed his crotch against John's knee, longing for friction and moaning when he found it. John stood up, not much taller than Alexander. He took off his shirt, left in only his pants and pushed them both towards his bedroom, grateful that he hadn't left any weapons in there. He pulled away reluctantly.

"I thought you didn't engage in relationships with men?" he smirked.

"Yeah, well, I haven't tried this one."

"Good enough for me."

John gasped when Alexander pushed him down onto the bed, his dominance taking him by surprise. He didn't dislike it. His arms were pinned above his head by Alex, who straddled him, taking his own shirt off and bending back down, interlocking their lips again. John shifted his body, finding a more comfortable position. Alex let go of John's hands and slunk down his body, pulling down his pants and underwear with them. He threw them onto the floor and licked along John's shaft, painstakingly slowly, eliciting a groan from him. He flattened his tongue against his pink tip, circling it. John shuddered underneath him.

He drew himself back up to John's mouth, letting his tongue slip into it, exploring. John pulled back into the bed.

"You are such a liar, this is _not_ your first time, is it?"

Alex laughed and moved his hand down John's body, rubbing the inside of his thigh.

"Fuck me, Alexander?" he pleaded, rubbing his forehead against the other man's.

"Do you have anything?"

"No, it's fine. Just, please?"

He circled his thumb over John's entrance, teasing him. He gripped Alex's wrist tightly in his hand.

"Please?"

He pushed the first finger in, watching John's face twist as his bit down hard on his fist, pain clear in his expression at the lack of lubrication. Alex leaned over him, nipping at his neck.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, don't stop. Keep- keep going," he said, fidgeting and squirming beneath him.

Alexander slid in a second finger, slowly working him open, stretching. John moved his fist from his mouth and tugged at Alex's pants, pulling them down.

"Come on, stop teasing me. Just, fuck, please?"

Alex pulled his pants down the rest of the way, kicking them onto the pile on the floor and spat into his hand, lathering his dick with it, not wanting to hurt John too badly. He lined himself up and started the slow press into him. John cried out but quickly muffled the sound, covering his mouth and turning his head into the pillow. He groaned, but not at Alex, sounding annoyed. He lifted up the pillow he was lying on and turned the pistol there onto safety, chucking it onto the floor, wincing as it hit the hardwood floor.

"Makarov? That is one fine pistol. I mean, it's been a while for me, but am I really so bad at this that you'd shoot me for it?"

John rolled his eyes the best he could, screwing them up as Alex moved, "you- you just keep doing what you're doing and I'll worry about the firearms in my bed, yeah?"

Hamilton pushed himself into John as deep as he could and stayed still, moving John's hand away from his mouth and pinning it above his head again as the man's muscles spasmed against his shaft. He pulled out slightly and thrust back in, repeating the motion, gradually picking up his pace. His hands restrained, John couldn't hide his cries, shifting from pain to pleasure. It edged Alex on, rocking his hips harder and quicker. He let John's hands go and they quickly reached for his face, kissing him hard and biting down on his lip. Alex didn't mind. John's legs wrapped around his body, bucking his hips to meet every thrust. He moaned into Alex's hair, gripping it tightly as he hit him in the right place, moving to recreate the sensation of pleasure. He didn't last much longer, releasing between them and biting down hard on Hamilton's shoulder.

John gasped as he felt Alex flooding him. He slowly pulled out and lay beside John, panting.

"What else did you lie about, Hamilton? Because after that I'd say that you most certainly entertain the idea of being with a man."

"Why do you have a Makarov under your pillow? Do you kill everyone you have sex with?" Alex asked, half-joking, half more than a little concerned.

"Not _everyone_ ," he panted.

"Are you gonna shoot me?"

John rolled over onto his side, "no. I promise that I will not kill or hurt you. Or your family."

 _Family. Wife. Pregnant wife. Sick pregnant wife._ Alexander sat up, "shit."

"What is it?" John sat up, too, wincing and shifting onto his side.

"I- I have to go."

"Charming," John scoffed.

"I'll come back soon, just… I really have to go."

John huffed and stood up, pulling his clothes back on. He cursed when he stood on his handgun.

"I'll drive you home."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while on any of my stories. Couple things in the world stopping me writing, but I'm trying to get on top of it. Enjoy!**

* * *

John drummed against the wheel in beats of four with his fingers, sitting in the car outside of the Hamilton household. Alexander stayed still, staring straight ahead. John's drumming and the sound of his watch ticking was all that could be heard. Feeling as though he would break under the strain of the silence, John opened the door and went around to Alexander's side, opening it for him. Alex snapped back to reality, his train of thought growing smaller and further away as the light dimmed in his eyes.

"You're home." John leaned on the side of the automobile, looking at some trees, not at all interested in them.

"Indeed."

"Well… I suppose I'll, I'll see you around, Hamilton."

"Yes." He nodded once and turned to walk across the road to his front door.

John turned to watch him, calling his name to grab his attention, "remember what I said. Be careful. If they want you dead, it will happen."

"'Preciate the warning. You, too."

He unlocked his door and disappeared. John didn't know what he expected. What? Would he turn back for one last look? Would he run out and say that he wanted more time with him? Would he beg John to stay? _No. Of course not. That's stupid._ John sat back in his car and closed his eyes, blindly feeling under his seat for a pre-rolled cigarette. Where was it, he was sure it was - ah! There! He pulled it out and found a box of matches, lighting the cigarette and taking in as much as he could, blowing it out again. He shut his eyes and sank down in the seat slightly.

After a few more minutes, he drove himself back to his apartment. Smoking some more and drinking. He wanted to sleep. He found some more barbiturates. _Good enough._ He kept the curtains open, in his hazy state too distracted to think about anything other than sleep. He lay on the sofa and closed his eyes.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

He snapped his eyes open and sat up straight and stiff as a cornered mouse. He looked out of the window, already reaching for a pistol or a knife or anything. He dropped whatever object he picked up, which was certainly not a weapon of any kind, when he saw Alexander looking more than a little panicked. John opened the fire escape door and stepped out.

"What is it?" he asked.

Alexander stumbled over his words, "Eliza… she, s-she... baby. Wife, baby. Now baby."

John kept a straight face, "... okay. Right. So, do you want to try again in English?"

"My wife is having a baby!"

"Like, right now?"

"Yes, right now!" he said sounding incredibly flustered.

"What do you want me to do about it? Your wife, your problem." John shrugged.

Alexander rolled his eyes and grabbed John's arm, pulling him to his car where the latter tiredly drove back to his house. John was starting to miss that horrible car silence now. He could hear Mrs. Hamilton screaming in agony upstairs. He winced. Alex started to pace in the hallway, muttering under his breath. That was annoying, super annoying. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Over and over and over until he couldn't bare it any longer. John pushed him against a wall, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Please, for the love of God, stop! You're driving me mad."

"I-I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Jesus, it's like you've never delivered a baby before."

"You _have?"_ Alexander's eyes were manic, racing in all directions.

"Just, go fetch some hot water and _lots_ of towels, cloths, anything. _I'll_ do the hard part, I suppose, seeing as you are incapable."

Without another word, John walked up the stairs, two steps at a time. He opened the bedroom door to find Eliza holding her back and groaning in pain as she held the frame of the bed. _Their_ bed. She wore a light blue nightgown, the trim wet as it brushed against a puddle of liquid on the floor. She looked up.

"Who are you?" she looked scared, "I know you, who- ow… ow ow ow…. are you?"

John held his hands out, "a friend."

She gripped the frame of the bed tighter, "Alexander!"

"He'll be here in a minute, just lie down."

"Lie down? I don't even know who you are."

John rolled his eyes, "look, sweetheart, I'm the closest thing to a midwife you're gonna get at this time of night. Just do what I say and this will all be over soon. You'll get to meet your kid and I'll get to go home. Deal?"

She stared at him, breathing heavily through a contraction. Slowly she nodded her head and John advanced towards her, helping her to lie down on the bed.

"I hope you don't mind ruining these sheets, they're not coming back from this," John said nonchalantly.

She glared at him, "I couldn't possibly care less about these sheets at this moment in time."

He shrugged and moved the duvet off of the bed and threw it into a corner. Hamilton entered the room, looking helpless as he clutched towels and a bowl of water awkwardly. John took one of the towels off of him and lay it under Eliza. He dampened a cloth with the water and gave it to the pained woman to wipe the sweat from her brow. She pushed her head into the wall behind her as another contraction came.

"Breathe through it," John said.

"Thank you… if- if you hadn't have said that I'd never know what to do."

"Just trying to help." He put his hands up in defence. "Hamilton, are you just going to stand there? Tend to your wife! Honestly… must I do everything?"

He snapped into action, giving me the rest of the supplies and rushing to Eliza's side, holding her hand. He yelped when she squeezed it and John couldn't help but laugh, quickly stopping when Eliza shot him another painful glare. _Those were not pleasant. At all._

"Can you put both your feet here," he patted different parts of the bed, "yeah, like that. I'm just checking that everything is okay."

"What? No, you can't." She tried to close her legs but stopped as another wave of pain came.

"Jesus Christ, do you want a baby or not? I can't exactly do this blindfolded. I have to check everything is okay to make sure it isn't a breech baby and that the cord isn't trapped around its neck."

Alexander wore a look of slightly increased panic.

John continued, "so, are you going to let me deliver this child?"

Eliza nodded and willed herself to relax, wiping her face with the cloth. John pulled Eliza's nightgown up so that he could see. He could see the top of a head already. _Not a breech baby then, that was good. Less difficult._

"How long has it been since your water broke?" John asked.

"Hours ago."

"Thought so. Okay, I'm assuming you're getting the urge to push, yes?"

"Obviously," she rolled her eyes, breathing heavily and crushing Alex's hand. He looked like he was in equal pain to his wife.

John grimaced, "you're gonna have to fight against that urge for a little while. Just concentrate of taking short breaths… through your mouth. Alexander will do it with you."

Hamilton looked up, "I will?"

" _Yes,_ " John hissed.

They started breathing together. Short breaths through their mouths like he told them to. John kept his eye on the crown of the baby's head. He clicked his tongue and looked back up.

"Try doing a small push through your next contraction. Don't force it."

Her eyes went wide with worry, "no, no, not yet. I can't. Not yet."

"Course you can. Squeeze Alexander's hand as tight as you want to. Tighter than before, don't hold back, he doesn't mind."

Alexander's mouth fell open, "I beg your pardon?"

Eliza groaned, "Alex! Whose position would you rather be in right now?" He said nothing. "Exactly, so shut up and stop being such a drama queen."

John saw her tense and watched some of the colour drain from Alexander's face as his hand was subject to his wife's pain. She pushed her head back and cried out. John moved his hands to support the head of the baby, caught off guard by how quickly this part of the birth was going. _It took much longer at the institute._

"That's good, one more and we'll probably have a full head," John said, checking the umbilical cord wasn't wrapped around the neck. _Nope. Good, it's gonna be fine._

"It hurts!" She turned her head into Alex's shoulder who smoothed her hair back.

"I know, love. You're doing so well." He kissed the top of her head.

John looked back down, not wanting to be a part of that. He didn't want to get jealous. It wasn't like him. He reached for one of the towels while still supporting the head.

He tapped her leg, "ready?"

She reluctantly nodded and screwed her eyes up, breathing deeply. She pushed as hard as she could and John managed to get a better hold on the baby, part of the shoulder was out. He could get it out from there. He supported the neck and eased it out slowly and gently, wrapping it in the towel. He washed the baby's face with the water, smiling when it cried for the first time. He knew it was okay then. That was his favourite part. He waited for the cord to stop pulsating before he cut it.

"Congratulations. You have a son," he said, passing the crying baby boy to Eliza who had tears streaming down her face by now.

She laughed, "hello, baby."

Alexander was beaming. He looked up to John and mouthed, "thank you."

Eliza let Alex hold their son while John helped her with the afterbirth. She yawned heavily and John told her to try and get as much rest as she could. _Lord knew she was going to need it._ He picked up all of the dirty sheets and towels, taking them downstairs, along with the afterbirth, to dispose of it all. He boiled some water on the stove and prepared some tea for everyone, bringing it upstairs on a tray. Eliza was asleep by the time he got upstairs, snoring soundly. Hamilton was sat in a rocking chair in a corner, rocking forwards and backwards with the sleeping babe in his arms. John leaned against the door frame with the tray in his hands.

"You can put him down, you know. He's not going anywhere. Let him sleep."

Alexander shook his head, "I… he's so perfect. How could he be so perfect?"

John shrugged, "seems like a baby to me. Come, put him down for a little while and drink this. Promise it's just tea. No arsenic or poison or whatever. Just tea. Swear it on my… um. Just trust me."

He set the drinks down on a dressing table and walked over to Alexander, taking the baby from him and putting him down in the nursery. John took one of the stuffed toys from his childhood to the crib and lay it next to the sleeping baby. He was undeniably adorable; already born with a head of dark brown hair, a cute button nose. John couldn't help staring. He was enraptured by the happiness a little life could bring. He'd almost forgotten about everything else. All the life he took, all the happiness he took.

Shaking his head and clearing his throat, ridding himself of any thoughts on that matter, he returned to the bedroom where Alexander sat on the chair, still, rocking slowly with tea in his hands. John sat with his legs crossed on the floor, nursing the drink.

"Not lethal then?" John teased.

Alexander shook his head, smirking, "it hasn't kicked in yet. Give it time."

"Mhm, true," John mused, picking a spot on the floor with his fingers.

"Listen, about earlier this evening-" Hamilton started.

John cut him off, "forget it. I understand." _He didn't_ want _to forget it himself. He didn't_ want _to understand what Hamilton was saying._

"It's just that-"

"I know. It doesn't matter. I'm not gonna kill you or anything."

He went to speak again but stopped when Eliza started to stir.

"Alex?" she mumbled.

He went to her side. John finished the cup and stood up. He fixed Eliza her own cup and brought it to her bedside table.

"If you are feeling well, I'll take my leave," he said, gripping his arm tightly behind his back.

Eliza tried to sit up, grimacing, "no, nonsense. It's far too late. You must stay the night. We have a guest room that is always ready. I insist."

"That's not nec-" he started.

She grabbed his arm, "please? You've done so much for me. It would be my pleasure. Just one night."

He looked at Alexander, hoping he would help him get out of it. Nope. Of course not. John sighed and smiled at her, "if it is what you wish, I shall stay. _One_ night."

"Of course, just one night."


	7. Chapter 7

John lay awake on top of the sheets, his shirt off, keeping his trousers on. The lamps were dim, almost emitting no light; nothing but the subtle amber hue casting itself around the room. He heard floorboards creaking throughout the house. Probably Alexander. He'd been reduced to a babbling idiot since the arrival of his baby, in and out of the nursery muttering unintelligible nonsense about how wonderful he was; at least it was nonsense to John. He cared for children, but he didn't understand the excitement of fatherhood. An hour or so was tolerable, but after that a baby wasn't much use. They just cried and vomited and slept. They were considerably boring for the most part.

He rolled onto his side when he heard the footsteps advancing towards the guest bedroom. Faced away from the door, his front masked by shadow so that it was impossible to tell if he was asleep or not. He heard the door click open, felt the light from the hall enter the room, creeping through the gap in rays of gold. John slowed his breathing creating the illusion of sleep as he waited for the door to close again. It felt like a lifetime before it did. He got out of the bed and sat at a mirror by the window, taking his appearance in and shrugging. He tied his long curls back with a ribbon and scrutinised his features. He didn't think he was unattractive. Quite the opposite. He liked the way he was on the outside; it was the inside that was beginning to be an issue. Something needed to be done about that. He stared out of the window for a few more minutes. Possibly hours. Time and again he would hear the cries of the baby from the nursery, the subtle taps of Eliza tending to her babe, the _less_ subtle banging of Alexander's feet as he paced room to room.

Sleep would have been good. It was almost dawn, there wasn't much point. But still, he wanted to sleep. He buried his face in the pillows. _Why were they so soft?_ It felt like embracing marshmallows crossbred with clouds. Ridiculously soft. Sleep, as hard as he tried, never came. The beams of light streamed through the open curtains, shining over John. He groaned and sat up. He pulled on the shirt from the day prior - not bothering to button it up - and made the bed, pulling the sheets straight and fluffing the pillows. He left the room exactly the way he had found it. Spotless.

Sat at the kitchen table, Alexander scribbled onto pieces of parchment, not looking up as John entered. The latter brought the already boiled kettle to the table and sat across from him, poured tea, watched him writing ferociously.

"Morning," he said.

Alexander grumbled back in response, "mhm."

John rolled his eyes and let himself take in the room around him. He hadn't had chance to look around in the heat of the night before, now he was overwhelmed with curiosity. The kitchen screamed of domestic care, something none of John's abodes ever had. Perhaps the domestic aspect of life was more part of the Hamilton system. He didn't think Alexander was the domestic type. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe that was all his wife. Nonetheless, his home was covered in evidence of it. Photographs. Books. Flowers. Antiquities. Paintings. Paints. Everything from the smallest pocket watch to the ornamental French soldier figure upon the mantelpiece. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. The idea of it seemed too different for his liking. But as of recent events, he found himself more susceptible to change.

"How was it?" Alexander asked at last.

"What? You? I suppose you were pretty okay, but-"

"Did you sleep okay?" Alexander rubbed his face, sipping from the tea John gave him without question.

"Yes, thank you," he lied. "Your wife keeps a comfortable home, satisfactory to all who stay, no doubt. Shame it is only for this one occasion."

He stood up again, looked around the kitchen for a moment longer. _So many flowers._ He noticed his name - his real name - on top of a file on the table. He walked towards it and looked through it. John frowned, drawing his brows close together.

Alexander shrugged, "I don't understand how you faked your death."

"There was a terrible, terrible fire at the prison. Guess I just didn't make it," he tried to smirk, but he was still pondering over the files.

He looked young in the photograph, hair cut short, still curly. Lighter, though. Hamilton joined John looking through the file.

"How old would you have been there?" he asked.

"Uh, I want to say… probably around eighteen, nineteen maybe."

"Did you fight in the war?"

John rolled his eyes and looked at him like he was stupid, "obviously I fought in the war. That's literally the only reason I was born, dipshit."

"Sorry."

Laurens shut the folder and left it face down on the table. He sat down again, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He passed one to Hamilton, who gratefully accepted it, and leaned back.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Alex mused, seemingly to himself, but looking at John.

"What are you talking about?"

"This whole 'you're a target' business. I would just leave, or go to these people, you know, keep Eliza out of it. But now I have this son and it's… everything's changed now."

John blew out a long breath, "well, I wouldn't recommend staying here. But that's not to say that Eliza and the baby can't go with you."

"And what then? Where would we go? What if they found us? We'd constantly be living in fear."

"Why don't I go with you, if you go, that is? Then I'm the only one who would have to worry about not letting you people be killed. And who knows, maybe they'll eventually get bored and forget about you. Especially if you're off the map. Or we could stage _your_ death-"

"This is insane," he pressed his head into his palms.

We both turned at the sound of footsteps leading to the kitchen door, the creak of the door opening. Eliza stood, tired, wearing a clean nightdress and dressing gown. She mumbled a good morning and moved to get some tea. John put his hand up in front of her.

"Why are you out of bed? You need to rest, you shouldn't be on your feet," he chided.

She gripped the side of the table to support herself, "I've had a child, not a death sentence. I am perfectly fine. Now, what are you gentlemen discussing so early?"

"Business," they said in unison. Looking at each other, relieved that they said the same thing.

Eliza rolled her eyes and sipped from her cup, "naturally."

Her hair was long and silky, down to her waist. It made her look young. She was young, John supposed. They all were. She looked pale in the first light of day. John frowned.

"I really think you should go back to bed. At least for a few more hours."

She shook her head, betrayed by a yawn, "someone must keep the house running. And I am afraid my husband is rather useless in that area."

"Hey, that's not entirely true," Alexander countered. "I kept it running when you went back home."

"No, you didn't. It was a mess when I returned."

Alexander sulked and picked up his pen. John stood up and excused himself, trying one last time to convince Eliza to go back to bed. She promised she would after her tea. He walked up the stairs, sitting at the foot of the bed and pulling his shoes on. He didn't want to stay any longer, already overstaying his welcome. He shouldn't have come in the first place. Shouldn't have taken Alexander to his apartment. _Should have just done his job._

He heard the baby crying, tried to zone it out. Couldn't. It was persistent. Begrudgingly, he opened the nursery door and looked over the crib. The baby's arms were waving around, legs kicking. Helpless. He leaned down and picked him up, supporting his head and softly rocking him.

"Hey, what's wrong, little guy?" he cooed. "Hungry? Tired? Just plain grumpy?"

He bounced him, wrapped in a blanket. He felt that the blanket was wet and lay him on a table. Removing the soiled cloth, he cleaned him with the water bowl available and wrapped him in a fresh cloth diaper. He stopped crying when John picked him up again, cradling him in one arm and holding the dirty cloth in another. He took him down the stairs more cautiously and brought him into the kitchen where Eliza and Alexander sat.

"Little guy needed a change." He gave the baby to Eliza and gestured to the dirty cloth, "you're gonna want to boil this in water and leave it to dry out in the sun."

"Oh, thank you. You didn't need to do that, I would have. But thank you… sorry, I don't recall your name."

Alex's head perked up and John hesitated, "uh, Jack. Jack Smith."

"Who, might I ask, are you? We have met, I have seen a photograph Alexander has shown me. I'm not sure I understand."

John rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm a… friend. You can trust me, I assure you. I am afraid I really must take my leave. If you need anything, your husband knows where to find me."

He turned to leave. Alexander stood up and followed after him, showing him out. John had his hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet on the doorstep. Alexander had his hands clasped together behind his back.

John spoke first, "you can come to my apartment when you're ready to discuss the matter further."

He nodded, "I'll come in the next few days."

"I'll be going then. Say goodbye to the little one for me?"

He smiled weakly and went inside. John let out a breath and leaned his head back against the morning breeze. The car took a moment to start and he drove to his apartment in a hazy state. It was a miracle he even made it back in the first place. The room was cold, the skin on John's arms formed goosebumps. He left his keys on the counter and bent down to start a fire in the hearth. It was dreadfully quiet. One of his pistols was left on the coffee table, empty. He needed more bullets. He pulled the suitcase, acting as a makeshift armoury, out from under his bed and reloaded his guns. He felt better after that. He washed the glasses from the day before and put away the whisky bottle, taking one last swig of it. He changed out of the bloodstained shirt he was wearing. _Tip: next time you're delivering a baby, don't wear a nice shirt._ He changed into a blazer and trousers with suspenders. He pulled on a matching flat cap and left again.

He found himself sat on bench by the lake in the park again. He sketched into one of his notebooks the view from where he sat. The swans washing themselves in the golden sun. The tired looking children walking alongside their mothers. Men striding along the path with bags in their hands, heading to work. Insects flying through the air, terrorising the people in the area. The pencil broke and he groaned, rolling his eyes. He snapped the notebook closed and tucked it, along with the pathetic excuse of a pencil, into his bag. The sun was high in the sky now, nearly midday. _Had he been in the park that long?_

He felt a tap on his shoulder and jumped up, drawing his hand to his inside pocket. Attack mode. He turned around and relaxed when he saw it was the little girl from the few days past. The one who he had to save _multiple_ times. _How were kids so fragile?_

"Can I help you, kid?" he said, furrowing his brows.

The little girl rocked from side to side, "I just wanted to say thanks, mister. I got you a flower. You looked sad. When my mummy is sad I give her flowers."

He wasn't sad. But he smiled and took the flower from her. It was a snowdrop, not yet blooming.

"Thank you. That was very kind of you. Now, where's your mother? I bet she won't appreciate you talking to strangers, will she?" John said, feeling that he might as well teach the kid a life lesson. Stranger danger and all that.

"She's at home," she said.

"Who are you here with?"

She shrugged, "I came on my own. I was getting flowers for my mummy and then I saw you."

John looked around. He couldn't just let her wander around on her own. She was a little girl. Six, no doubt. He made up his mind.

"Come on, I'll take you home. Show me the way."

She nodded and took John's hand, taking him by surprise. She had a strong grip, pulling him through the new crowds of people visiting the park. John made her look both ways before crossing the road. _Second life lesson, kid. People are idiots on the road._ They found themselves on a council cul de sac. A group of children were playing with toy guns and sticks, play fighting. Another group consisted of women, chatting, sat in garden chairs, drinking tea. The little girl let go of John's hand and ran over to one of the women, embracing her and giving her the flowers she had picked. The mother beamed at her and pulled her onto her knee, bouncing her, continuing her gossiping.

John thought it best to go, taking the long way home. He bought himself some food and ate it on the way. The apartment was warmer than before, having left the fire burning. Probably not a smart thing to do, but nothing terrible had happened yet.

He froze in the living room, finding that Lafayette was sitting there, drinking what looked like water from a tiny glass.

"Drinking from a tiny glass doesn't make you more intimidating, you know, it- it just makes you seem like a dick," he said, trying to sound confident, the crack in his voice betraying him.

"We need to talk."

John put down his bag and took his hat off, "about what?"

"The bosses can't afford to let you go. So they've made a decision to take you to another institute in return for dropping the Hamilton assignment."

John's heart skipped a beat. Maybe two beats. "What?"

"They are willing to spare his life, in return for you going to another institute."

John pressed himself into the wall, "why? That doesn't make sense. They wanted him dead. Why would they change their mind?"

"Because you're more valuable." He stood up and advanced toward John. "they know that if Hamilton is killed, they lose you. It's a deal you can't refuse."

John felt his head growing heavier. He needed to sit down. Couldn't move. Trapped between Lafayette and the wall. He looked down, squeezing his hands together, gripping his arms, rubbing his wrists.

"And _who_ is _they_?" he spat.

"I can't tell you that. All you need to worry about is saying goodbye to your little friend and packing your belongings."

"How am I to know that this is a fair deal, how do I know you won't just kill him and his family anyway?"

Lafayette shrugged, turning to sit down on the sofa again, "you don't. You just have to trust us. You have my word that these are the terms of the deal, and they'll be followed accordingly."

"You… promise?"

"I swear it on my son's life."

John nodded slowly, regaining movement in his legs and sitting on the arm of the chair, clutching his sleeve.

"I know that you're nervous-"

John cut across him, "I'm not nervous."

"I _know_ that you're nervous. But it's the best option you've got. We'll take you at the end of the March. Two months."

"Where is this one?"

"Germany."

He stood up to leave, John barely noticed. His eyes transfixed on a spot on the floor. The only thing awakening him from his trance like episode was the sound of the door slamming shut. He slid down the wall, bringing his knees to his chest and closed his eyes tight. Wrapped his arms around his knees, squeezing as tight as possible. His mind was racing at two hundred miles an hour, yet not processing a single thing. He felt too hot, yet shook as though fighting the winds in Antarctica. Everything went dark.

He woke up on the floor, dripping with sweat. Moonlight burst into the room, blinding him with its silver rays. He hoped it had been a dream. _Please let it have been a dream._ He struggled to get up, crawling to the closest piece of furniture for support. He wiped his face with his sleeve and ran the bath. He made sure the water was hot. Burning hot. He stripped and pulled his hair tightly back, tried to regulate his breathing. His face screwed up in pain when he put the first foot into the water. _You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it._ Second foot. _Fuck you. What good have you ever done? Gonna go back to where it started and come out worse. The water will have to be boiling by the time you get out. If you get out._ He submerged the rest of his body, biting back the sobs that tried to escape him. _You don't get to cry, you lost that right._

His skin was raw, red all over. John threw on an oversized shirt and called it nightwear, made him feel like a little kid again. The apartment was dark, the roaring fire reduced to golden embers, barely producing any light. He drank until he stopped feeling and passed out on the floor next to the sofa.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry this one is a little shorter.**

* * *

The hangover felt like a balloon under his cranium, slowly being inflated, pressure mounting. He splashed cold water in his face just to feel something refreshing and instantly wished he could wash his brain free of the toxins, too. The mirror showed his eyes, no longer enchanting, a lattice of pink over the white. Every movement felt like a death sentence, like his head would split in two if he so much as turned it. He sniffed, rubbed at the crusted skin from under his eyes and climbed into his bed. He pulled the sheets far over his head, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his legs. His head was pulsating, throbbing.

He thought about everything. Reviewed the situation. He never thought he'd have to go back. There were nights when nothing could drown out the shouting and screaming of the other kids, the other 'patients', his mother. On those occasions he would hide under his bed sheets, fill his mind with escape plans. He was five the first time he tried to get out. He was skinny, barely an inch of fat on him. He could fit through the vents, made it out of the building, never got past the wall. He still had scars from where they beat him for it. Too big for the vents now.

He lightly dozed, didn't get out of bed until the early evening. Sipping at a glass of water, he pulled on a coat. With the setting sun came a sky of fire. The orange gold stretching far and wide, a filter over the city. The lovely London sky. He kicked beer bottles on the pavements, barely noticing how the city teemed with people passing by on their way home. He bent down to a stray dog by a fire hydrant, petted it, earning an appreciative tail wag. Jazz music pulled him towards the bar at the end of the block, enticing him. _Fuck it._

"What can I get for you?" a bartender asked. Blond. Blue eyes. Cute.

"Strongest poison you got." He slumped into one of the red bar stools, leaned on his elbows, held his head.

The man brought over a small glass with some clear liquid in it. John chugged it, barely affected by the burn.

"Rough time, huh?" he was leaning over the bar.

"You have no idea," he grimaced, picking at the skin on his fingers.

The buzz of the bar grew muffled. He couldn't think straight, nothing made sense. He downed another drink. Then another. And another. He 'woke up' outside of the Hamilton's. How did he get there? What happened to blondie the bartender? He didn't remember. His car wasn't there. Did he walk? How did he not notice himself walking? He didn't remember the decision to come here. He was shaking on the top step, judgement clouded by the drink, rapping on the door before he knew it himself. It stayed shut. He rapped again. Nothing. John was about to turn away when it opened, an apprehensive Alexander still clothed.

"John?" he said, a small gap between the door.

He grimaced, still not liking that Alexander knew his name. John was really shaking now. He was so fucking cold. Where was his- what happened to his coat? _Please say he didn't._ Pieces of what happened started to come back. Fragments. Nothing more than still images. He went to the man's place. Clothes off- yup. He definitely did. _Damn it._ He must have dropped him off at Alexander's street. John must have zoned out. Completely. He groaned aloud and was met with Alex's confused expression.

"John?" he said again, opening the door slightly wider. "What's going on?"

"Can I- can I come in? Please?" he stuttered. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been crying, screaming. Had he been?

John looked over his shoulder for a moment as though checking no one was listening then slowly nodded his head, offering his hand which John took. Alex led him upstairs quietly. Everyone else must have been asleep. They didn't speak again until they were in Alexander's office. John looked around. There was so much stuff on him in there. It made him more uncomfortable. Hamilton noticed his line of vision, casting over the years worth of research and case files.

"Like I said, I spent a long time on your case," Alex said, shrugging. He was cautious, still not trusting the assassin's intentions entirely.

"You are- your family is safe. You don't have to run away."

Alex drew his brows together, "what?"

"I… cleared everything up."

Alex looked slightly alarmed, "please tell me you didn't-"

"What? No. No! I made a deal with them. No one's dead."

"What kind of deal?" he hesitated.

"It… it doesn't matter. What matters is that you and Eliza and the baby are safe, I assure you that."

He sat on a clear section of Alex's desk, held his breath when the owner moved closer towards him, looked down at his hands.

"And what about you?" he frowned.

John shrugged, "I'm a professional killer, there's only so much damage you can do. Whatever I get I deserve… that's how it is."

It didn't mean that he wanted to accept the arrangement. He was still scared. Still terrified. He knew that he was a bad person, he'd always known he was a bad person. He didn't want to be like that anymore. But the institute, they would put an end to any of those ideas. He'd be reprogrammed, rehabilitated into the world of politics, the game of war. The only world he'd ever been a part of. Alexander caught the distant look in John's eyes and moved closer still.

"What have you named the baby?" John blurted out, uncomfortable as a result of the close proximity.

"Philip," he said, the pride gleaming in his eyes. "He's asleep. Happy with the stuffed toy you gave him, he won't settle without it."

John smiled, "that's good. I liked it when I was younger, too."

They settled into a silence, John still darting his eyes around the room, looking for something to distract him. Trying to convince himself that the deal was worth it. Alexander didn't deserve to die. Certainly not by John's hand. Alex moved closer to John, so close that his leg almost touched John who squirmed where he sat, not sure if he trusted himself. The room was spinning, the world masked by the intoxication of alcohol. Alex was looking at him. Too close. Way too close. _Not close enough._ He gave in, leaned forward and connected their lips. His lips tasted of lemon and coffee. Maybe a bit of tea. Alexander didn't pull away, trying to get closer. He found himself between John's legs. He held the back of John's head, pulling his fingers through the hair there. John's legs were wrapping around the back of Alex's, nothing telling him to stop. The canary of his mind still chirping away, not warning him of the dangers of entertaining the man before him. His wife was upstairs, sleeping. There he was, sinning with the husband. He couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. He reached his hand towards Hamilton's crotch, palming him.

Alex rocked forward, searching for John's touch, moaning low into John's neck. His hands tugged at John's shirt, unbuttoning it. In a blurry haze, John attempted to undo Alex's, his hands fumbling with the buttons.

"How drunk are you?" Alexander asked.

John tilted his head to the side, "drunk enough to let this happen."

"Works for me."

Alex decided it best to unbutton his own shirt, John handled the trousers fine enough, pulling them down and rubbing Alex's thighs. Alex pulled a drawer of his desk open and reached for a small tub of vaseline. John held up his hand awkwardly.

"I don't think you're gonna need it," he screwed his brows together, feeling embarrassed.

Alexander looked confused, "what do you mean?"

"Let's just say I have been very, very careless this evening."

Something clicked in Alexander, he understood what he meant, a tint of jealousy in his eye. He hovered his lips over John's ear, causing him to shudder, "who has had you tonight, Laurens?"

More embarrassment. _What's with the embarrassment recently, Laurens? You're going soft._ "I… don't- I don't remember?"

Alex chuckled, tugged John's pants down, "well, let's hope you remember this one, mhm?"

John nodded. Didn't want to talk anymore, wanted Alexander. He leaned back on the desk, not lying down, enough to be comfortable. Alex lined himself up, not bothering with preparation. He didn't make any move to press in, felt like teasing him. It worked. John fidgeted where he sat, grumbling. Writhing beneath him.

"What are you waiting for?"

"You to ask nicely."

John laughed, "you're gonna be waiting a long fucking time, then, aren't you?"

Alex shrugged, moved away, "your loss."

"Wait, is this really a game you want to be playing? I'll just get bored," he grabbed Alex's wrist, "and you won't like it when I get bored."

He pulled away from John's grip, teased his entrance some more, "just ask nicely and we can play."

"Not gonna happen."

Alex shrugged, "okay."

"I'm serious," he folded his arms over his bare torso.

"Fine with me," he moved, no longer within reach of John.

John sighed and mumbled, "please?"

"What was that?" he was enjoying this too much.

" _Please_ … Alexander, will you... have me?"

The second he could reach, John pulled Alex by the waist toward him, relishing in the feeling of having his dick rub against his. Alex guided himself inside of John, pushing his tip in slowly. John whimpered, not lubricated enough. He bit down on his own arm, teeth digging into the flesh there. Alex steadied himself, slowed down after noticing John's discomfort. He'd resorted to biting his lip, looking down at where there bodies connected.

"More?" he pleaded.

"Sure?"

He nodded, scooted his hips so Alex could sink his cock in further, deeper. He gasped, Alexander quickly clamping a hand over John's mouth, silencing him. The latter frowned, still not used to the whole dominance thing.

"You have to be quiet. She's asleep," he looked ashamed, but made no move to stop.

John nodded and Alexander rolled his hips, thrusting himself inside of John's warmth, loving every second of it, hating himself for loving it. John, the same. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but right then and there it felt so, so right. Him and Alexander, everything and everyone else forgotten, a blur they could deal with later. Now they were in the present, and a wonderful present it was. Alexander drew back, rolled his hips a few more times, wanting to establish the best angle before indulging in any kind of thrusting pattern. He had to find the right spot. He hitched John's legs up steeper.

John panted around Alex's hand. _He'd found the right spot._ He snapped his hips, gave John everything he was silently begging for. Alex's mouth was to his ear, whispering his affections. John wrapped his arms around Alex's neck, pulling him tight to himself as he came, whining in pleasure into Alex's palm. Alex pounded in and out of him, few more thrusts and he was close. He held eye contact with John, his green eyes were tired, sad looking. Glazed over. Alex finished himself off inside of John, pulled out and reached for a wet cloth he had in his office. He caringly cleaned them both up and redressed. John was quiet.

"Are you okay?" he asked him, rebuttoning his shirt.

"Mhm, yeah," John yawned, felt tears prick his eyes. _No, none of that. Not now, not ever again._

"Do you want to stay the night? You can stay in the spare room again. 'Liza won't… mind."

He was too tired to argue, felt lightheadedness coming on strong. Needed to get out of the office. Wanted to sleep. He nodded his head, picking up his shirt. Alex showed him to the room, despite knowing where it was. He brought him a glass of water and shut the door. John waited a moment or two after the he had gone before assaulting the floorboards in a panicked pace. He was getting attached to him, to Alexander. The man he couldn't have. _Nor indeed any man, but that was beside the point._ Alexander was a _married_ man. He had already been claimed. Even if the law forbade them being together, God did, too. And now he had to go away, off to Germany. And he couldn't even tell Alex. he was never going to see him again after the two months had passed and there he was, growing attached. _Getting soft._ His head pounded. He sat at the foot of the bed holding it. He cocked his hip to the side, it really fucking hurt. _But Alex was really fucking good._ He fell onto his back, felt his curls fall onto the pillow under his head. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. The cloud of darkness grew darker, blacker. Sleep closed in on him. He rolled onto his side, didn't bother to get under the covers and slept. No visions, good nor bad, visited him during the night. Nothing but blank. A dreamless slumber.

A presence woke him. He opened his eyes, saw that the room was still dark, still the middle of the night. Moonlight crept into the room. He turned onto his back, hissing at the pain in his lower half, to see what had woke him. Someone was sat at the end of the bed, a figure. It startled him, he was too drained to move. That made him scared. He was always ready to defend himself. Not now.

"It's alright, it's me." Alexander's soft voice soothed him.

"What are you doing?" he croaked.

"I came to see if you were alright." He spoke matter-of-factly, as though it should have been obvious.

"I _was_ until you near gave me a heart attack. Rule one of knowing someone like me: don't scare them. It doesn't end well for any party involved!" he whisper-shouted back.

"Sorry. I meant before. You looked kind of rough on my doorstep, and earlier you seemed upset. What's wrong?"

"I'm not upset. What on earth gave you that idea?" _Probably a lot of things, are you sure you want the answer to that question, pussy?_

The pain in John's head came in waves. Alex continued, "what about this deal you made? Is it something to do with that?"

"Leave it alone, Hamilton. It is of no importance."

"I'm merely curious."

"It shows. Are you staying or leaving? My head hurts and I ideally want to sleep it off. That can't happen talking about things that don't matter with you."

"I want to stay."

"Get in then."

John pulled the covers up, budging himself to the edge of the mattress to make room for Alex. He climbed into the bed, causing the springs to squeak. John sighed and closed his eyes again, trying to keep up the facade of not caring, being annoyed at Alexander for interrupting his sleep. In truth he was grateful, wanted to feel someone else around him. He was conscious that Alexander was still awake. He didn't want to be the first to fall asleep and so he opened his eyes again, fighting against the urge to close them. Only when he had convinced himself the other was asleep did he give in. Slept knowing that he could worry about everything else in the morning, right now he had Alexander to comfort him with his presence. The only presence he wished for. It was enough in that moment.


	9. Chapter 9

A baby crying. He wouldn't open his eyes. He knew that a baby crying meant that they were awake and doing the rounds, it meant that they were going to come in. The thought of seeing those evil people again made his stomach turn in waves of nausea. Creaking floorboards. They were outside his cell door. They were going to come in at any minute. He gripped the thin sheets pathetically and rolled his face into the mattress, screwing his eyes shut. Maybe if he was lucky they'd think he was dead. He didn't think he could go through anymore treatments.

 _Shit._ He flinched as the door clicked open. He brought his knees instinctively to his chest, gripped his hair, curling in on himself. Pressure on the mattress confused him. They never sat on the mattress, it wasn't big enough for starters. He chanced opening one of his eyes. He gasped, letting out the breath he'd been holding. Where he'd expected to see the evil stony eyes of the nurses he instead found the kind ones of Eliza as she perched at the edge of the bed. He wasn't in the institute at all, he hadn't been for years. _Idiot._

"Are you alright? Alexander said you were feeling out of sorts, I brought you some tea. You've got a fever."

John didn't know what to do; he lay frozen in the bed in a state of shock. Eliza smiled warmly, sympathetically. She stood from the bed and moved around to John's side.

"What time is it?" he asked.

Eliza fussed with a damp cloth, pressing it onto his forehead. He noticed how soaking wet his body was. He'd been sweating like a sinner in church throughout the night. _Where was Alexander?_

"It's past noon, that's for sure."

John tried to sit up in vain as Eliza only pushed him back down again.

"You need to stay in bed, at least until I can get that fever down."

He shook his head, "I'm fine, I was just drinking last night."

 _And the night before._

Eliza frowned and insisted he stay still. He fell back, defeated, as the baby's cries grew louder. He didn't want to listen to him like that, wanted so badly to rip himself from the bed and cradle the child until he was happy again.

"Is Philip alright?" he asked. He couldn't help but ask.

She huffed, "I don't know. I always thought I would just know what was wrong."

"Maybe he just wants some momma time. It's important to get skin to skin contact while he's still newborn. Build bonds and stuff."

She nodded, "it's worth a try. I haven't really had time."

"Have you not been resting like I told you to?"

"Please, if I left Alexander in charge for three minutes I would have a house burned to the ground with nothing but his precious writings to call property."

"Where is he?"

She rolled her eyes, "in his study, no doubt. I can tell him to come here if you want? Maybe he can bring Philip."

John shook his head, "oh, no, no, no, if I really am sick, I don't want to be near the baby. Not while he's so young."

He spent the rest of the day in bed, a chunk of the next, too. Eliza's strict orders. But he hadn't slept. Turned out he really did have a fever. _That's what happens when you turn up on someone's doorstep in the middle of the without a coat in the freezing cold._ The fever was hard to shake, he wasn't feeling a hundred percent when he finally did get out of bed. He'd barely seen Alex during his stay, but now he sat in the lounge with Philip, a bundle in his arms.

John crouched down beside him and cooed at the baby who gargled back, though making a conscious effort not to breathe on him. He gripped Alexander's finger with those adorable baby fingers and waved his other arm around. It was enough to lighten John's mood.

"Do you want to hold him?" Hamilton asked.

John shook his head and stood back up, "I'm still not completely well, I don't want to take any chances."

"You do look pale."

Alex gestured to the chair across from his and John took it, rubbing his eyes and bouncing his knee. It felt better to not be cooped up in the spare room, but even the confinement of the Hamilton house was almost unbearable. But he promised he wouldn't leave until Eliza said he could, and as of yet she hadn't given him her approval.

His eyes fixed on the floor, he coughed and lost himself in the world of 'weird thoughts'. He could have sworn he was having a conversation with Alexander, or maybe Eliza, but he couldn't recall any of it. The only evidence he had was the muscles in his face growing tired, his mouth drying.

"And how do I do that?" Alexander asked.

John looked at him blankly. What were they talking about?

"Do what?"

"Burp him?"

"Oh, uh, I'll help you."

He stood up, but nearly fell over when his ankle gave way. He hissed and rolled the problem joint in a circle, trying to bring it back to life.

"Are you alright, Jack?" Eliza's brows creased in a concerned way, an expression that seemed more common the longer he stayed.

"Quite alright."

He knelt down beside Alexander and told him to hold Philip upright on his knee.

"But what about his neck?" He held his baby like it was his abusive grandmother's favourite vase.

"You support the neck."

The more John instructed, the more painful it was to see Alexander's confusion.

"Just, put your palm on his chest. Hold his chin up with the same hand. It's gonna look like you're about to strangle him but as long as you don't apply pressure he'll be fine."

He looked horrified at that and Eliza laughed. John helped him with where to put his hand and felt shudders course through him as they touched. His skin felt hot and he worried he'd be blushing.

He cleared his throat, "yeah, uh, just lean him forward a bit. That's right. And rub his back, pat it until he burps."

"Like this?"

"Little firmer. But not too hard. Yeah, that's about right."

They all watched and waited, Alexander clearly scared he was hurting him even despite John's constant reassurance. The moment Philip let out a tiny burp they all cheered and Eliza walked to her husband, kissing him on the cheek. John tried to look anywhere that wasn't the happy couple, but no matter how far he turned his head he could still see. Alexander tried to find eye contact with him, himself feeling the tension that hung tangible in the air.

John excused himself and went up to the spare room. He'd left it clean, as though no one had been in there for years, cleaner than when he'd found it. But he wanted to do more, help out around the house, especially to get some work off of Eliza's back. Needed to make it up to her. He was the murderous little mistress, after all, the least he could do was clean up after himself.

The next day he dedicated to cleaning the whole house. He beat the rugs, swept and polished the floors. He took the cups that Eliza had brought up to him down the stairs and started on all the dishes. She had protested but in the end decided to take John's advice and go to rest. Philip had been put down for a nap and Alex hung around the kitchen as John worked.

"You know you don't have to do that, right?"

"I know."

"Then, why are you? Sit down, you've been at it all day."

"I'm alright."

John felt Alexander moving behind him, still started when he weaved his arms around his waist. He smelled of bitter coffee; John turned his head and smirked at him.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up at him and brushed his hand over the skin on John's arm, exposed where he'd rolled up his sleeves. Traced the scarring there. John tensed and turned back to the dishes, scrubbing a particular troublesome spot on a plate. He rolled his lip between his teeth and sniffed. He stepped back and faced Alexander who still held his hips firmly. He could get away if he wanted to, but it was fine, he didn't want to.

"Why don't… me, you and Philip go out? For a walk? I need some air and I'm dying for a smoke."

Alex scratched the back of his head and frowned, "he doesn't have a stroller. Wasn't exactly in our budget."

John shrugged, "then I'll buy him one."

"Do you have any idea how expensive strollers are these days?"

"Do you have any idea how much I get paid? I don't need that kind of money. I'll buy the stroller, we can have a nice day out."

Hamilton shook his head and slumped into the kitchen chair, "no way, I'd never be able to pay off that debt."

"You won't have to. Consider it a gift."

"I don't know."

The pipes gargled as the sink drained and John dried the dishes on the rack, putting them away. He pulled his most authoritative face and crouched down in front of Alex, hand rubbing his knee.

"Please?"

He let his hand climb higher up his leg and tilted his head. Alex squirmed in his seat and looked dead straight at the kitchen window. John patted his thigh and stood up to his full height.

"The cheapest one?"

"So cheap that it might as well be free of charge."

"I'll go tell 'Liza."

He hurried off up the stairs and John pulled on his shoes at the front door. He almost slipped on the freshly polished floor but caught himself on the banister; not sure if he wanted to be angry or proud at how thoroughly he'd cleaned. Alex met him on the doorstep with Philip in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. John walked behind them on the path so he could smoke without feeling guilty. He shivered and pressed the cold paper weapon to his chapped lips, lit the cigarette. He took a long drag and sighed contentedly. The sweet toxins flooded his lungs and he exhaled his relief in a cloud of grey smoke. _Christ, he'd needed that._

They found a small store selling their desired product and entered, John holding the door open after stubbing out his cigarette, half-smoked, stuffing the good half in his pocket. Alexander looked horrified at the prices and incredibly out of place in a shop like this. John chuckled and patted him on the back and looked at the strollers, trying to find the one he had in mind. He'd seen one recently, he always said if he had children he would get them that stroller. Now would have to do.

He called over the store attendant and bargained with him, handed over the cash and left the store, stroller in hand. Alex lay Philip down in the cushioned space and tucked his blanket around him. John took charge of pushing him around while Alex smoked the rest of John's cigarette. He led them to his favourite park, despite Alex grumbling about the cold.

"You could have worn your jacket. Neither me nor Philip are complaining. Maybe we're just smarter than you. Isn't that right, Pip?" John grinned at the baby who had woken up, smiling. Sure, he knew it was just wind, but he liked to kid himself Philip liked him.

"Pip?"

John blushed, "yeah. It's just cute. I like it. Easier to say than Philip, too."

They found a park bench and sat down, overlooking the lake. The ducks there were huddled together on the banks, the weather too harsh for them to bother begging passers by for scraps of food. He found it strange that people would purposely bring food to the park to feed the ducks, but when it came to passing their own kind on the streets… some would even spit. It didn't make sense to him.

Alex rested his foot on the stroller, rocking it back and forth as he watched the people around him. John studied his face. He looked like he was thinking about what to say, something was on his mind but he didn't know how to phrase it.

"What are your little grey cells doing?"

He cleared his throat and shrugged, "just thinking. Sorry."

Clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the sun. That was the downside of London. As much as he loved it... the weather, climate; it was depressing. He leaned into the stroller and picked up Pip, holding him to his chest and bouncing him lightly.

"Aren't you just the cutest baby I ever did see?" he cooed.

He held him in front of him and he screwed up his face, sneezed. John pulled out his bottom lip and pouted.

"Bless you, baby. Have you got the sneezes? Yeah, I know, it's the worst. But your daddy is gonna make you feel all better again, yeah? And then when we get you home, your momma is gonna give you lots and lots of kisses and cuddles. You're gonna be so loved, baby."

He locked eyes with Alexander who gawked at him. He threw his arms in the air at him and laughed, holding his sides.

"What's tickled you?"

"You!"

"What about me?"

"You're just… I don't think I'll ever understand you."

John frowned, bounced Pip who grew annoyed that he was being ignored, "no, what do you mean?"

Alexander raised a brow, and huffed. He pulled his hair back into a low ponytail and stared at John.

"I mean, you're being so good with my son. From the second he was born you've been bonding with him. But it's insane. The night I met you, you literally killed a person. Your standards are crazy."

"Three people."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I didn't kill one person the night we met, I killed three. Two of them deserved it."

A painful silence followed. John played with Philip for a little longer, but he couldn't stop thinking about what Alexander had said. He did have crazy standards. But for valid reasons. Maybe he should tell him. But he'd never told anyone. It was his life, pathetic as it was, but it was all he had. He couldn't just dig up his past and throw it around.

"I don't hurt children. Or pregnant women. It's my code."

"Your… code?" He turned, interest peaked.

"Yes, my code."

"People have codes for reasons," Alexander prompted.

John nodded. Philip burped on his own and John praised him, smile reaching his eyes. He was a beautiful baby, a genuinely beautiful baby.

"It started when I was a kid, in the institute. At first, my mom was still around. She was the only good thing about it all. Obviously she didn't want to be there but it wasn't like any of us had a choice. There were five of us, I had two brothers and two sisters…"

He bit his lip.

"Had?"

"They either died early on or were killed. None got past eight. But I digress. No, the point is, the story I mean. Hold on, let me start again?"

Alexander held his arms out for Philip and John passed him over gently, knee bouncing, hand twitching.

"Take your time."

He cleared his throat, feeling himself start to choke up. But he wasn't going to do that anymore, he promised himself.

"When I was nine, there was a raid on the institution. Or at least I thought it was raid. I'll- I'll get to that bit. But there was a big shootout in the common room… thing. It was meant to be a common room but it was more of a big holding cell with all these tables, that's where we'd all go once they'd given us the… treatments. No, sorry, I digress again. There- there was a shootout and some of the other children got shot or trampled or stabbed or, you know, all that stuff. The few of my siblings that were left died there and then. But I wasn't there. I was at training with my father on the one day I wasn't supposed to be. I was taken to this room and had to stay there until it was all over. And my mom had been shot…"

"Christ."

"She was pregnant. And then my father made me go around the common room and look at all the bodies. It was horrible. They were my family. My mom's body was on top of my brother and sister, she'd died trying to protect them. Then I found out it wasn't even a chance raid. It had been premeditated. Not by an opponent either. It was an inside job. An assassination to wipe out the 'weak' ones in the group and make the ones with potential 'stronger', all of it orchestrated by my father. That's why I'd been booked for training that day I think. But, we were just kids. We didn't deserve that."

"I'm sorry I brought that shit up for you."

"You were probably going to find out at some point. But that's- that's why I have that code. They made me a monster but I was still more human than they ever were. I know I'm a bad person, but at least when I killed people, it was because they did something wrong. Those kids were innocent."

They walked back to the Hamilton's house without speaking a word. John still pushed Philip's pram. He felt like he had to prove himself, not just to Alex, but to the baby in front of him. He felt an overwhelming need to protect him. He slowed down his walking, kept fidgeting with his blanket. He was probably hungry. Alexander squeezed John's hand briefly were it rested on the handle before anyone could see the gesture. John half-heartedly smiled, checked the road and crossed to get to the house.

Eliza sat in the lounge reading a book. She cradled her baby and asked them how their little outing was. John didn't answer, let Alexander take care of it. He felt too tired to make anything up. He sniffed, the cold still getting to him.

"Are you still sick, Jack?"

"Just a little, I can leave if you'd like?"

"Oh no, please stay, just one more night? There's something Alexander and I wanted to ask you about actually."

His breath caught in his throat. What did she mean? Jesus, Eliza, vague much? Way to give a man a stress headache.

"Oh?"

"Yes. well, it's just that we'll have to have a Christening for the little one soon, and we were discussing godparents last night. We thought, seeing how you've done so much, you'd might like to be his godfather?"

John froze. Not what he was expecting. His mouth hung partially open and it felt dry. Godfathers were meant to protect their godsons forever. How could he promise to God to do that when in a few months he wouldn't even be in the same country? The kid was important to him, sure. But that only made it seem more daunting, the idea that he wouldn't be able to always look out for him. But he couldn't refuse. How could he deny that wonderful woman - a woman he'd hurt terribly and she didn't even know it - a promise of being a second father to her baby?

He swallowed down his doubts and smiled, "I would love to! It would be an honour."

An honourable task, but a position he'd certainly dishonour.


End file.
